All sick senses
by Possibility Girl
Summary: After the perfect, normal and ambitious student gets kidnapped with Kimblee as captor, things tend to become little extreme. But exactly how thin is the line between extreme and psychotic? To them, it was all fun and games after someone got hurt.
1. Chapter 1: Combat stress reaction

_**A/N:** There are obvious reasons why is this rated M. Don't get fooled by the beginning. It gets better [worse]._

_And of course, comments and suggestions are always welcome!_

_Thanks to LovelyWeather for being my lovely BETA. _

_**Disclaimer**: I don't own FMA or characters that belong to it. I also don't own philosophers stone. Imagine that._

I – Combat stress reaction/Shell shock

At first, there was darkness.

She knew she was awake. At this point that was the only thing she knew. Her mind was as black as the back of her eyelids - eyelids she desperately didn't want to open. Even though her thoughts were buzzing like bees and were too chaotic to make sense, somehow she knew that it was only going to get worse if she opened her eyes. She just wanted to sleep, just to sleep without dreams, to stay in the warm bed and sleep, sleep, _sleep_…

There was a sudden noise.

It wasn't really loud, but in the dead silence and darkness of half-sleep, it made her shiver. It seemed to be coming from somewhere bellow her. Her heart ran so fast that she felt it like she was clutching in her palm.

And then, there came the voices.

She couldn't hear what they were saying. She couldn't even distinguish if they were male or female, but she became aware of the fact that she wasn't alone here - wherever that '_here'_ was. One thing she knew quite well – the voices weren't her friends. Not wanting them to find her unprepared in the bed, she decided to open her eyes.

White ceiling. That was all she could see.

Blinking fast a few times, trying to adapt to daylight, she moved her head to take a better look at her new surroundings. At first her moves were fast, as if she ha(d) no control over them. She tried to stop her head from turning, took a few deep breaths trying to normalize her heartbeat and then slowly gazed around.

She was in a room. A normal, medium-sized room, with nothing really special in it that would help her recall what had happened. But the fact that this wasn't _her_ room, and wasn't Ethan's either made her worried. Where was she? What happened? And why couldn't she remember a thing?

It could easily have been any room in the world, since it was really simple, without any specific details. There were two chairs, a drawer, a table, a mirror, a window, the bed on which she was lying. The only thing that wasn't a part of the simple, plain wooden furniture was an armchair covered with red velvet and a bookshelf, not overloaded with books but still with a good amount of them. Maybe there was _something_ in the books. Something that would give her a clue as to where she was.

Wanting to find answers to her questions, she quickly sat up in the bed, removing the blanket from her, put her feet on the wooden floor and –

She fell.

Her legs were, obviously, hurt. One was bloody and she wasn't sure how she didn't notice this when she woke up. Perhaps because of the shock caused by appearing at the place she had never seen before, it was only now that she noticed the bitter smell of blood and the scarlet colour of the greasy sheets. For the first time in her life she felt so weak, so hurt, that she couldn't even stand on her own two feet. Biting her lip hard in order not to scream, she held onto the bed and lifted herself back into it, using all the strength she had in the arms. Breathing hard, she sat on the bed, trying to avoid the parts covered in her own blood. Sitting down, she took a deep breath and stared at the foot that bled on the clean, wooden surface. There was nothing to do but watch the red liquid drip like water and slowly spread into a sticky puddle. She didn't know much about wounds, but this particular one didn't look "friendly". It looked too deep and she wondered how in the world was it still bleeding. The sight of it made her feel sick – not because she was scared and disgusted by blood itself, but because things were getting more serious. The strangest thing, though, was the shape of it – it looked like half circle and like some extremely large pair of teeth bit through her skin. But that wasn't possible. No one in the world had that large a jaw. No _human_ could do that.

She was anxious and wanted desperately to do something about it, but she couldn't control her moves despite how lively her hands felt. She just couldn't concentrate on what to do with her leg, with her hands, with this situation… There must have been a way, but there was no way that her mind could think of anything right then. Her thoughts were still as dizzy as her hands, her heartbeat still rapid and even thought she knew she must relax, that seemed like a hardest thing in the world. Without any control she felt her eyes filling with tears. '_Fool, there's no time for that now,'_ the reasonable part of her brain screamed, yet her body thought differently. It all seemed fatal now – she was trapped, her leg hurt, the smell of blood was awful, she wanted to sleep, she wanted to jump up and do something, she wanted to cry…

And it was only then that she noticed the voices had stopped their discussion and were now replaced by another frightening sound – the sound of steps coming up the stairs. Judging by it, they were man's steps – hard and determined, though slow. The man was obviously not in a hurry to see what the dull sound he heard before was, when she fell to the floor. She appreciated this.

Tears were now replaced by a complete tension in her body. She could hear her heart drumming in her ears - every – single - beat.

Finally the steps became so loud and close that there was no doubt that the person was right in front of the door. For a moment it was silent, as if he was thinking about going in, but even if he had doubts they lasted only for a second. The handle moved and her heart skipped a beat.

"Oh, good mornin'," a polite voice said. Scared about what she might see, she slowly raised her head, analyzing everything about the newcomer's appearance, from polished shoes to the top of the hat. She made only one conclusion – he didn't look like someone you would imagine to be a kidnapper, except, perhaps, his smile. He was wearing a suit: a very fancy white suit which made him look sophisticated and classy - someone who had something to do with the authorities perhaps? A nicely combed black hair tied under his white hat, which threw a shadow over his eyes, completed the image of a posh businessman. None of this gave her a bit of comfort - there was something is that smirk that told her that this man was dangerous.

His eyes, still in the shadow of the hat, were obviously observing her bleeding ankle. Yet he made no gesture to show that it was the blood he was watching – it could have easily been her face, judging by his smile. Finally he decided to raise his head, in the same way as she did a moment ago, analyzing every inch of her body. She shivered uncomfortably as his eyes studied the line of her legs, thighs that disappeared under the skirt, her tiny waist, small breasts and collarbone. Usually, she wouldn't feel anything when a man's lustful eyes would search over her body, but this was different. His eyes didn't search for the sexual pleasure. It was like he stripped her with his look, enjoying in her helpless state. He raised an eyebrow and his eyes finally landed on her face with an even creepier smile than before. Not even noticing what she was doing, she moved backwards, as if the wall behind could save her.

She saw it now – it wasn't only in his smile, but in his eyes as well. They were the same colour someone might have used for painting winter, and as piercing, steady and incredibly cold as ice itself.

"How are you?" he asked politely. She found it strange that someone dared to kidnap her, trap her, notice her bleeding leg and still ask so calmly how she was, as if he expected her to answer with a 'Oh, I'm just dandy, and how are you?'

Of course, she had no intention to answer him at all.

Daring herself to stare back into his eyes, she felt anger, shock and fear as her hands started to tremble. It was like her body was reacting of its own accord, detached from her puzzled thoughts. She squeezed the sheets and it was only then that she noticed how wet her hands were. Her back started to hurt badly - she was sitting as straight as a marble column. But, stubborn as she was, she didn't want to abate (her glare) and so her brown eyes were kept focused on his grey ones.

Judging by his smile he noticed this and seemed amused by it. He even let himself give a little chuckle to her worthless efforts to stay calm while her body was shaking.

The chuckle was the final trigger. Her fear and anger turned into fury and all she wanted was to break free, hit him and run away. With this plan in her mind she quickly grabbed at her left wrist.

She found nothing there.

"Are you looking for your bracelet?" he asked her as she checked her pockets. "You're not going to find it there. We took it, naturally."

_We_. So it wasn't only him. He was not alone in this. Trying to gather up what was left of her memories, she concluded that it certainly wasn't this man she had fought the previous night. She would have remembered it if it had been him. He wasn't a kind of a person that you could see twice and not make a connection.

The knife. She always carried her knife in her bag. She looked around, trying to see where it was. She gasped. It took her a lot of effort to part her dry lips that glued together by mixture of spit, blood and dirt. When she finally spoke, her voiced sounded like it came from the depths of a cave, "My bag…"

"…is being checked right now," the man chuckled again. "Tsch, for a young lady to be carrying such items around..." he clicked with his tongue in fake disapproval.

Her mind worked quickly as she tried to remember what was in the bag – a knife, some money, a bottle with water and her little black book. Damn it. _That_ was a stupid thing to do – to carelessly carry that book with her! She knew she shouldn't have listened to Eather.

As if he knew what she was thinking about, the man spoke, "I am sure you understand it will be some time before we return it to you."

There was no discussion about it. Now it was pretty clear what was happening here - they were planning on keeping her prisoner and this room would be the only thing she would see from now on. If not the last.

She didn't want to beg this man for mercy. She might have lost the battle – whatever the battle was – but she still had her pride. As a matter of fact, she didn't even want to talk to him. Turning her head, she stared at the wall. It was so wonderfully blank, unlike her thoughts.

"You're a stubborn child, aren't you?" he noticed, "Well, I better get you some food and bandages. It would be a waste to let you bleed to death now."

She didn't want to look at him as he left the room. She bit her lip hard and it wasn't long before she tasted blood on her tongue. That didn't stop her from just sitting there, biting and sucking repeatedly, trying to finally calm down. It was all still worthless. There was a killer-party going on in her head, while her expression stayed calm and blank. Like she lost all the motivation to move, to escape, to _feel_. And from all things she felt in her head and body, the only she could name were anger, carelessness and a grief that she ever left home.

But when the man came back holding a plate with soup, piece of bread and a glass of water, she felt a new urge – to vomit. The idea to shove anything down her throat seemed impossible. Although her stomach was rumbling, she knew that anything that touched her mouth would go out right back through it. To her, there was nothing grosser in the world that _that_ mere piece of bread.

Not losing eye contact the man placed the food on the night-table beside bed. "Eat while it's hot. Soup is never good when it cools down," he advised her, taking out bandages and few bottles from his pocket. "You know how to do this by yourself, don't you?"

Truth be told, she didn't. There were a few first aid tips she learned in school, but that was years ago. All those basic things she read about anatomy in alchemy never explained types of wound and she never learned how to make the bandage actually _stay_ on the skin. But she had no intentions of letting him touch her. She took the things he brought her, without saying a word. That, unfortunately, didn't make him leave. He leaned on the drawer, watching her, like the sight of her suffering and her bleeding flesh was some rather interesting show he enjoyed.

Her hands were still trembling while she opened the first bottle and put a bit of liquid on the bandage. The moment it touched her skin she screamed out in the pain so loud that the sound of her own voice surprised her. It burned like someone had pressed flaming torch to her skin.

"Ah, I guess you'll need my help," man sympathetically concluded and took the other string of bandage. "You should never put this on an open wound. I just wanted to see if you knew what you were doing," he explained with satisfied smile. He sat down on the bed very carefully in order not to besmear his perfectly clean suit – that meant that he sat pretty close to her, so close that an uncomfortable shudder flew through her body, causing every hair on her arm to bristle. He obviously didn't feel the awkwardness in this situation as he took her naked leg into his lap without hesitation.

The moment he did so she felt the warm blood climbing up her neck all to her cheeks. She didn't blush often, but everything in this situation seemed wrong and strange to her, from his cold fingertips on her trembling ankle to the feeling of smooth fabric of his jeans on her bare heel.

His eyes didn't miss this. Instead of proceeding with the work, for a moment he just sat there, his hand on her leg, taking enjoyment in her awkward reaction. He smiled widely and pressed a finger against the wound. Scream burst out of her throat once more, colder and sharper than any sound she had ever made. Her throat hurt from it.

"Oh, my bad!" he faked concern, "I'll be more gentle, Miss." She didn't let herself believe his promises and she tried to move the rest of her body as far as she could – she wanted to move her leg from his palms so desperately, but it was impossible. Although he was not too muscular, he was obviously strong – his one hand was enough to make her whole leg paralyzed against his. With his other hand he moved his cold fingers slowly down her knee, making it convulse. Grinning at this movement, he finally became interested in his previous work.

This was certainly natural to him – he was looking at the circular injure for a few moments, obviously examining it and trying to figure out how deep it was. "It is rather odd that you're not familiar with these types of things," he continued their one-sided talk. "Judging by the book you carried with you," he smiled again, "you should have at least some basic knowledge about humans." He took off his gloves and she understood exactly what he meant, as well as why was he himself was so skilled - transfiguration circles were on both of his palms. A "fellow" alchemist.

She cleared her throat – now that she finally wanted to answer him she noticed for the first time how much dirt she ate last night. Not only was her throat sore and dry, but she had a terrible feeling as if there were gashes on the inside. She had to take a long sip of water before any sound came out of her chapped lips. "I don't have much interest in human anatomy. I am more interested in – in the _other_ things." Her voice was rougher than usual.

He raised his head for a moment as she spoke, obviously pleasantly surprised that he didn't have to keep monologues anymore. "In killing humans?"

So, they knew. "No," she shortly answered, "I never did."

"Then why would someone like_ you_," he chose words carefully, "carry a book like _that_?" He cleaned her wound slowly and professionally. It itched a bit, but it was nothing she couldn't bear. He certainly was trying not to hurt her.

"Research," she simply explained, as if the thing they were talking about was an assignment of cutting frogs for a biology class.

He jerked, obviously thinking similar, "Nice hobby it is. Planning a massacre?"

"I wasn't!" she raised her voice in annoyance now. "It was just for a research! I did not intend to find what I did."

His hands were now quickly putting bandages around her wound – she felt he was pulling them a bit tighter than they should've been. All the while he was silent. After he finally tied them, he raised his head to look at her again. "Some people had to do years and years of research and you're telling me you _accidentally_ found the philosophers stone? You're really a terrible liar. _That_ won't work around here." Suddenly he grabbed her leg and clenched it. She gasped in pain, biting her tongue hard, perverting herself to give him the pleasure of hearing her scream again. "Is that understood?" he smoothly asked.

Not able to come to breath, she nodded and unclenched her teeth around her tongue. It was sore and she felt as if she nearly bit off half of it. "Good girl." He relaxed his grip a bit, yet didn't release his hold on her leg. "Now, eat the soup and lie down to relax. We have a lot to talk about later."

She sighed in annoyance as he got up, gently returning her leg to the floor, right beside the pond of fresh blood. "I suggest you get over it soon, we'll be talking quite a lot these days. Who knows: maybe we even become friends."

And then, before she could even protest against this senseless statement, he stood up and walked to the door. As he opened them, a dash of fresh air flew into the room. She was suddenly cold, terribly cold from all the sticky, salty sweat that soaked her skin.

He closed the door behind him, leaving her as unsettled as before. Getting over the urge to run down after him – more prevented by her injures than by her mind - she stayed sitting on the bed, fixing her eyes on her reflection in the tiny red lake. She was honestly enchanted by how scarlet and crimson it was. It had such a nice colour.


	2. Chapter 2: Stockholm syndrome

_**A/N:** Second chapter to potentially sick fan fic, even though I got no reaction whatsoever. :P I remind you all - a comments are always welcome and so are suggestions. Good or bad, I appreciate every one of them. _

_Also, since chapters are named after psychological terms, I will explain every of them on the beginning of the chapter. These explanations usually won't be mine, except I put them without quotation mark._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>II –Stockholm syndrome<br>_..."phenomenon wherein hostages express empathy and have positive feelings towards their captors, sometimes to the point of defending them"_**

She didn't even try to get out of the bed. She was too weak and all she wanted to do was sleep.

But the sleep didn't come; for starters, she didn't like the fact that she had to sleep in her own blood. She curled down in the corner of the bed, her hands around her knees, and stared at the blood for hours it seemed. If someone were to walk in, they would've been disturbed by her thousand-yard stare - vacant, unfocused gaze.

There was nothing in her eyes; they were completely blank.

Yet behind their brown irises, there was a mess. Even though her thoughts calmed down a bit, the flashes of her memories were coming back now - slowly, one by one, like pieces of a complicated puzzle. If she had to describe the picture the puzzle created, she would've said it looked most like an impressionistic picture observed from close proximity – lots of colours, bright details, blurry masses, flashes and unshaped clouds, only _supposed_ to represent a human. She was sure that if she could only step back from that picture and look at it from the distance, the things would've been much clearer. But she couldn't – therefore, she had to embrace the fact that that shape – that _thing_ - didn't leave any memory of a face in her retention.

Yet, judging by inserts of the battle that played, like a short film, inside her head the _thing_ wasn't human.

No, she killed it way too many times. It should've been dead.

But she was **here** and _it_ was obviously **there**, somewhere, which meant _it_ won.

The end of the battle was still hazy. All she recalled was a sharp, awful pain in her leg like – like someone _bit_ her. But the wound was way too big to be a bite, she reminded herself. No, it was only a delusion. It was just because she was trying to subconsciously build her own memories.

The only thing she could easily recall was that _it_ knocked her down unconscious, and brought her here.

Or had there been two of them?

She shook her head in order to shake the thoughts off. Silly thoughts, silly thoughts. She shouldn't have done that in the first place. Ethan always told her that there was no point in her research. There indeed wasn't, except her own greed and lust for knowledge and its secrets- and this particular secret was so awful that the thought of someone using it was too disturbing for her to even think about.

But there was a part in her that triumphed because of the mere fact that she _knew _ it. She, alone, unwrapped the veil of mystery.

Sure, it was the reason why they locked her up, and it did take her years to put the pieces together, but she did it. There was something good about being the top of the class – all libraries and documents were open to her. Her charm, her knowledge and her determination made it much easier than it should have been. After she put together the details from the secret parts of many libraries, hints hidden in alchemical books and Ethan's memories of Ishbal war, it wasn't too hard to come to a conclusion.

The man was right – it did take years and years for some people to find the secret, but it was much easier when you knew the right people. A satisfied smile flashed on her face before she remembered _what_ that secret could cause and – more importantly – that it was the reason she was imprisoned.

The sound of steps and door opening drew her back from her mind as the man stepped into the room. "Hope you could relax a bit," he politely said, smiling in a rather pleasant way, "I got you new sheets and some new clothes, in case yours are dirty. You might want to take a shower as well."

A shower. Just what she needed - a warm, relaxing bath. She took the sheets and the clothes he gave her and nodded. By the looks of it, it wasn't something she would usually wear; it was way too feminine. She must have frowned a little since the man explained, "You should be thankful."

"Thankful, eh?" she couldn't hold back any longer. Her voice was deadly serious and mordant – as it always was when she was pissed off. "Why, _thank you_ for kidnapping me."

The corner of his mouth twitched, "Don't look at it like a kidnap. Think of it more like… surprise adoption."

If she wasn't as bitter as she was, she would've smiled at this. "Either way, can I know the reason?"

He raised his eyebrows, "You need a reason more than the one in the little black notebook?"

That was true – there was enough in that book for her to get killed, let alone locked up. Pretty much everyone with any alchemical knowledge knew how worth what in that book was, and letting her run around free did sound like an insane idea, if one was to put it that way.

But her mind was still yelling out the questions, one by one.

"Who are you?" she asked the next one in the line.

"Oh, how rude of me; I haven't even introduced myself!" he smiled and took off his hat, making a small bow, "I am Solf J. Kimblee or, if you prefer, the Crimson Alchemist."

This rang a bell somewhere in her head. Had she heard this name before? No, how could she? I probably just reminded her of someone… "A state alchemist?" He nodded casually.

She gasped as the voices inside her head began yelling louder and louder in fear. He was working for the state – he was following Fuhrer's orders – she was Fuhrer's prisoner! She didn't like the sound of this. _At all._

"So," she said between two shaking breaths, "Why are you keeping me _here_ if I am, technically, a prisoner of the state?"

"Ahhh, no," he shook his head, "You're not a prisoner."

"Oh, right, I'm an adopted daughter," she rolled her eyes.

Kimblee laughed at this while lazily walking to the armchair to sit down, "You can say it like that. But we're keeping you here for your own good. You mustn't be harmed." This was, perhaps, the most insane thing she had heard so far, not only then, but in her entire lifetime. It reminded her of the way parents – starting with her father - punished their kids when they wanted them to "learn something". It had _never_ made any sense to her.

Noticing her shocked face, he smirked, "We feed you, give you clothes, keep you warm. I make you company. Above all, you're being kept in a house and not in a prison _and_ I'm quite sure if you just cooperate I might even take you out for a walk down to the river sometimes. That doesn't sound much like a prison, does it?" he smirked again, this time at his own wit.

In her mind this kind of made sense - and yet, at the same time it **didn't** make sense at all. The question was still why did they actually want her alive. Surely there were more pleasant ways to keep someone alive than locking them in between four blank walls after nearly cutting off half of their leg.

But if you put it this way, she thought, it sounded way worse than it actually was. She _did_ have food, she did have a warm bed – she even had a nice view of the river from the window. And this man, Solf Kimblee, didn't seem like a jailor or a torturer. She mechanically looked at him – he was, above all, a cavalier, sophisticated and charming. When he noticed her gaze he smiled very pleasantly – by now she nearly forgot that dangerous spark she had seen in his eyes.

That must have been her imagination.

But before she could analyze him more, he put his hat back on and looked directly at her. "But enough about me, I'm dying to know something about a peculiar girl such as yourself," he said and the expression written on his face could really be described as interested. "For example, what's you name?" It sounded kind of cheesy, yet still charming.

She wasn't a little girl and she wasn't stupid. She had learned a long time ago that revealing personal information to a stranger was bad. It was logical that when someone hurts you and lock you up, you are not friends. But any common sense that had used to rule her was shattered now. It was just a chat and what was the worse thing that could happen? They wouldn't kill her, since if they wanted they would have already done so and not drag her here. After all, this man knew about the stone – he wasn't surprised by it at all. Her inextinguishable lust for knowledge started to wake like a hungry baby. Reasons for and against were fighting in her head and her mind worked fast – she finally heard her thoughts again and perhaps the triumph she felt about that was what made her take a risk.

And above all, he _was_ charming. There was no denying it.

"Imogene," she finally answered "Imogene Knox."

"_Imogene,_" he spoke her name with caution, letting it role off of his tongue. "Nice to meet you, Imogene," he repeated once again and smiled, as if now that he knew her name he learned something great – like it was not only her name he owned, but everything else about her as well. "And what was a well-behaved lady like you thinking when exploring about the stone?"

Was this what they wanted to know? The name was a trifle – the stone was a real deal. She didn't want to tell him all, no, not yet. There must have been something to do and distract him.

"Shower," she said to herself as well as to him, "I would like to take a shower first, to clear my mind. Please." She even let herself bat her lashes a few times. Old trick.

As expected, his smirk told her he got through her game. Despite that, he got up from the armchair. "Of course miss, follow me," he turned and opened the door.

Enthusiastic that she bought herself more time, she stood up quickly, but her legs betrayed her once more and she fell to the bed again. "Ah, I forgot." Kimblee turned to gaze at her again with false surprise. "Need any help?"

She desperately wanted to say no as she remembered how inappropriate his touch had felt against her skin, but that would mean she would have to crawl to the bathroom. Instead of admitting she was helpless, she took her clothes under one arm and wordlessly raised her left hand, like a princess or a small child waiting for help. He took her, gently, underneath the armpit and supported her to stand up.

Now that she was on her legs she noticed just how taller than her he was. Trying to rely on her legs more than on him, she slowly walked, biting her lip every time the sharp pain beginning at her leg flew through her whole body. He did not push her; he tried to hold her as much as she let him.

When she stepped over the doorline, she gazed around as if a whole new world opened in front of her. There wasn't much to see. It was a small house, one could call it a cottage – down the stairs there were two doors beside stairs and "her" room was the first one on the upper floor. There were two more doors – the one right next to her room was the bathroom, small and cozy. He helped her enter it and lean on the edge of the bathtub.

For a brief moment she dared to hope he would leave her here. He noticed the trace of expectation in her eyes and grinned. "I have to make sure that you don't run away, don't I?" he explained, leaning on the wall. "If you are embarrassed, draw a curtain."

If she was embarrassed! How dared he - Why of course she would use the curtain, _thank-you-very-much_, what did he expect! To have a pleasing show! Her cheeks burned bright red partly because of the anger and partly because of this thought. As a response she angrily pulled the curtain between them.

The very moment she did this, she realized it was going to be rather hard to enter the tub by herself. She sighed a few times, trying to come up with a plan, but her inspiration ran dry'. She slightly opened the curtain. "I can't enter the tub myself," she admitted and instantly regretted it– if she was bright red before, she was certainly scarlet now. It was a feeling like her whole bloodstream flew to her face and she really couldn't remember the time when she had felt weaker, more helpless and more embarrassed.

Kimblee did smile, but said nothing, to her luck. As if he knew something like this was to happen he grabbed a near-by towel, "You can disrobe, wrap in this and I will help you get in the tub. Once you're in, you can take it off."

For a moment she stood there, leaning on the tub, her mouth open in surprise. He had spoken those words so reasonably, as if there was no possible chance to do anything else, like the idea of watching her strip was out of every question. The visions in her head began to mix – he was her guard, one of her kidnappers and, therefore, her enemy, yet she couldn't help but find him incredibly kind. A _real_ gentleman. Ethan was never like that, no matter how big, clueless, good scout he was.

No, she mustn't compare this man with Ethan. It was just an insane thought: to even put someone who had kidnapped her and her generous boyfriend (for two-years!) in the same sentence. Trying to calm down her thoughts, she sighed and nodded finally, agreeing, "That sounds like a good idea." It was more than good – it was marvelous.

He gave her the towel and turned around. "Don't worry, I won't peek," he wanted to assure her, though there was no need for that. After everything, she was pretty sure he wouldn't do that.

She took off her shirt, noticing for a first time how sweaty it was. Also, it wasn't white anymore, but a light, muddy shade of brown, with few bloody stains. She was pretty sure that it was from the blood she had spat out earlier, since she could still taste it quite well under her tongue.

Her skirt was much bloodier, obviously because of her leg. It was also torn in a few places. But worse of all were her shoes, all covered in slimy mixture of blood and dirt that looked like it could never be washed down again. She sighed deeply – she liked those shoes.

Now that she was only in her underwear, Imogene couldn't help but raise her head from her shoes to Kimblee – he was standing there calmly, looking at the door, not even trying to gaze at her from the corner of his eyes. Fearful, she fixed him with a look as she took off her bra. '_His hair is so long,_' she thought to herself out of the blue. She threw the bra to the floor.

And then, she just stood there.

What if he turned around that moment and saw her staring at him? Unaware of what she was doing, she licked her lips, trying to make herself believe that she was shivering because of the cold air. Yet she was still standing there, leaned on the tub, in her panties and her breasts bare. There was **something** in the fact that she was nearly naked and he was fully clothed – something, _exciting_, she dared to think.

Not moving her stare from him for a second, she finally took off her panties. Now she was fully naked in the same room with the stranger who kidnapped her. How bizarre could life get. A week ago this would seem frightening. Now it seemed eccentric, but also peculiar and… _entertaining_.

For a moment she even thought of calling him that very moment, but she took a towel and wrapped it around her naked body. "I'm ready," she spoke quietly.

Turning around, he let himself take a look at her. Smiling at the sight of her fragile body wrapped in the oversized towel that didn't suit it at all, he softly took her by a hand, supporting her with other one wrapped around her waist. Leaning on his hands she now raised her bandaged leg and stepped into the tub. While she raised her other leg, he let himself move his palm for a millimeter as if he wanted to just feel a tiny bit more of her body. Nothing inappropriate or rash. To her, it felt just like his hand accidentally slipped for a moment.

When she sat down in the tub, he drew a curtain again without a word and stepped back. "Take your time," he said.

Imogene took off the towel and placed it on the edge of the tub, behind her back. She put up a handle on the faucet and warm water started to steam slowly into the tub, over her legs. A small, excited chuckle escaped from her mouth. It was, right now, one of the best feelings she could thing of. It was amazing how much she appreciated a simple bath. If she could've embraced the water, she would have done so. Leaning back she let the water cover her feet and ankles, enjoying every single drop of it, as if it was something exclusive and luxurious. She could feel the dir abandoning her skin, washing off, inch by inch.

It passed some time before she took the soap in her hands and started rubbing it against her body. She rubbed fast and hard, like that would help her take off all the problems she was facing. The sight of brown water going down the drain was beautiful and relaxing. She took the shower-head in her hands and let the water go over her whole body, down her hair, in her eyes, over her neck, breast and legs. Smiling to herself, she felt like she hadn't enjoyed herself in a long time.

She drank a sip of water and tried to clean with her tongue as much of the bitter taste in her mouth as she could. Then she spat it out, along with crusted blood and mud. Although she could still feel the awful taste of it between her teeth, it certainly was better than before.

Finally, she made herself turn off the water and let it all go down the drain. There go all her problems and blurry thoughts, all the dirt and blood - she imagined and smiled.

But the truth was quite different and it was standing right in front of the curtain.

She sighed deeply and wrapped herself in the towel once again. "I would like to go out now," she spoke.

Not a moment passed before Kimblee's hand moved the curtain. He smiled down to her and bended to take her by the hand. "Is the bandage still in its place?' he asked in concern while she stepped out of the tub.

"Yes, yes it's fine," she said.

With a smile he turned his head away again so she would change. She noticed that now he didn't stand far by the door – he was closer to her now. Letting the towel to fall down to the floor, she took new underwear from a pile of clean clothes and slowly put them on. There was even a ribbon for her to tie her hair. _Well, that was really considerate_, she thought to herself, finally taking the dress. Daring herself to look at him once again, she put the dress over her head and let it fall down gracefully. It was a black, simple, feminine dress and fitted her rather nicely. She liked how it felt against her body.

"All dressed," she announced, picking the towel of the floor and drying her hair in it, so it wouldn't be all wet.

Kimblee turned around and analyzed her figure again. "It fits you. I would even dare to say you look beautiful." Approvingly, he nodded, "I must say I chose the dress well."

"You chose the dress?" she raised her eyebrows, tying her hair on top of the head.

He didn't say anything, just smirk and raise his hand to offer her help once again. She accepted it with less fear or disapproval this time and walked to the door, feeling the cold tiles under her feet. They went over to what was her room now. "You can sit here," he helped her sit in the armchair, "while I prepare you a bed."

"T-Thank you."

It came as a surprise to her. Above all, he was still someone who kidnapped her – no matter if they were Fuhrer's orders, she was kept here as a prisoner. Yet, nothing was wrong. This man was normal like any other man on the world – even more than that, he was nothing but sweet to her all the time. To thank him would be quite normal, wouldn't it? She would thank anyone who bandaged her leg, helped her take a bath, provided her with clean clothes and made her bed.

He smirked pleasantly at this. "It's nothing," he said, removing the sheets on which the blood had already started to dry. "You did not eat anything," he concluded in kind of a worried, father-like voice.

"I am not hungry." The piece of bread was still as repulsing as ever. Just looking at her untouched food reminded her how strongly she wanted to vomit. Even though she did clean her mouth with water during a shower, it didn't help her wash down the terrible feeling of sickness.

"Anything else you would like?" he asked walking to her so he could lead her to the bed. When she sat down on it, she squeezed the white cotton between her fingers. It was _clean_. It smelled really nice and flowery.

"A cup of tea, perhaps," she admitted while leaning on a pillow behind her. "If it's not too much of a bother"

Politeness above all.

"Not at all. I can get myself one as well and then we can talk," he answered in the same tone as before, but that "talk" rang inside her head. He obviously wanted to talk about something specific.

The unanswered questions about the stone.

But as he walked out of the door she tried to drown those thoughts. The man looked quite nice – not rough in the slightest. After all, he did work for the state and the state was the symbol for justice and rightness. If they put her _here,_ perhaps there really was a reason to do so. They really **did** want to save her. But from what? She would have to ask him that and he would, naturally, speak the truth. He did look like an honest person.

Gentleman, real gentleman. Wouldn't hurt a fly.


	3. Chapter 3: Coercive persuasion

_**A/N: **Comments won't hurt. 3_

**III - Coercive persuasion**

… "_**process in which a group or individual systematically uses unethically manipulative methods to persuade others to conform to the wishes of the manipulator(s), often to the detriment of the person being manipulated."**_

This was _easy_. It was… like a vacation.

He loved his job, there was no doubt about it. One could never see a person who loved his work more than he did. Also, to speak the truth, he was the best one for it. The state couldn't have found better a man for the job. He had everything required for it – the skill, performance, power, enthusiasm, nerve and – _cruelty_. He was perhaps the only man who missed his _work_ and not a wife, a house or a cat while in prison.

And the taste of freedom was so sweet on his tongue, like wine rolling down his throat. He hadn't felt that lovely taste and adrenaline since Ishbal.

But after the little show he had made at Briggs, he just wanted to curl up and enjoy in the complacent feeling of pleasure he felt. He took his job as an artist – after a well-done project he liked to observe it, to take in all the details, to curve them in his mind making a mental woodcut. Every one of his "designs" was unique and worth remembering – priceless memories that must be preserved. That was why he enjoyed in this well-deserved break he got. He liked to recalculate previous happenings and feel the shivers down his spine every single time. It woke all of his senses like no woman ever could and he congratulated himself on a job well done.

This was an adventurous period. Lots of things happened, and what a series of _wonderful_ events it was! That latest bloodshed was like a cherry on the top of the cake. Red on white – he grinned. Just like the sight of red blood of dead soldiers spreading over the white, elegant snow. It was his new painting. And it was a _masterpiece_.

Slowly dousing the flowers of hibiscus with boiling water, he hummed a tune. It was a lovely day outside, but he had to admit that he was having quite a lovely day indoors as well. When he was first assigned to keep a prisoner he really wasn't attracted to idea of babysitting while the others prepared for the Promised Day he longed for so much. The fun started when they mentioned philosopher's stone – the friends of the stone were his friends. And those who knew the secret were his fascination.

He was sure that someone who realized the formula to make the stone couldn't be sane afterwards. And he was completely fine with that.

Taking two cups of hot tea he went upstairs, opening the door with his elbow. She was lying there, the way he left her, under the blanket, staring into the distance through the window.

Each time he entered through the door he saw a different picture. She looked rather fresh now, freshly washed and relaxed. The lines on her face, that were grimaced in shock the first time he saw her, calmed down now – they were much more balanced now and making a pretty picture.

There wasn't anything special about her face – it was harmonized and pretty, but simple and everyday-looking. She didn't have large or cat-like eyes; she didn't even have a penetrating look hidden within them – just a pair of brown eyes on a well-organized face. Her hair was long, a bit wavy, and her body looked fragile and gaunt, as if it could break down any second. Tiny waist, soft hands, skinny tights. That was, perhaps, the only thing that caught his attention.

Kimblee liked things that could be broken easily.

She looked at him as he walked inside and put the teacup beside her on a nightstand. For a moment she even smiled. He returned the smile, more out of the amusement than politeness. "Here you go, Miss Knox."

"Thank you," she expressed her gratitude again and instantly took the cup. Her slender fingers warmed themselves on the rim.

"You feel better now?" he asked her when she took the first sip. Not looking at him, she nodded. "You wouldn't mind if we had a little natter?"

The edges of her lips twitched. "It's not a natter. It's **questioning**."

"I will not force you into anything," he promised. That was true – there was no need for physical or even mental forcing; she would break down to him sooner or later. Girls had that habit. It was a miracle how each and every one of them could sell her soul for the most superficial smooth talk.

She looked at him with a mixture of disbelief and suspense, but finally spoke, "It was knowledge. Lust for knowledge; not greed for life."

This was _**way**_ too easy.

Slowly he nodded, as if he was processing her words. "Selfish reasons," he concluded.

"Aren't they all?"

He grinned at this statement. She was lovely indeed. "And when did you start the research?" he was interested.

"A few years ago. Around the time I finished school," she calculated. He analyzed her once again, thinking about how old she was – no day over 25, he'd say. "I can't remember the exact moment," she continued, "It was an interest that grew over time. First I just heard the myth. Then it was mentioned in one of my books mentioned it. I asked one of my tutors to let me search his personal library – I didn't tell him why, but I knew he had some books that can't be found easily. That was, perhaps, where I gathered most of the basic information, just to confirm the existence of the stone. Contrarily to these, I had to spend years on to find more specific information. But what got me interested the most," she made a small pause to take a breath. She wasn't looking at him but at the sheets, completely concentrated on the story she was telling. He could see that she was excited about all of this, as if she really wanted to share her success. For a moment she hesitated to say the next line, but she finally took a breath and looked at him, "What got me interested the most were rumours – about the Ishbal massacre."

His heart skipped a beat. Those words – Ishbal massacre – were the ones that always warmed up his skin. There was nothing he was prouder of. Not even noticingAbsentmindedly, his lips curled into a smile.

Her face glitched. There was something akin to fear in her expression now. "Why are you smiling?" she asked, completely serious. "There is nothing funny about it," she scolded him, "My boyfriend survived Ishbal."

Now, things were getting interesting. "He survived?" Kimblee raised his eyebrows in disappointment, shaking his head. "My bad."

She automatically moved away from him for an inch. There was a moment of silence before she licked her lips and asked under her breath, "You fought in Ishbal?"

He didn't answer right away. He took off his hat and fell back into the armchair. Enjoying her eager look and sweating hands, he slowly began. "So, you heard about the stone from the rumours about Ishbal?" she nodded, "What exactly did you hear?"

She gulped – there was no need for discretion now, when this man obviously knew more than she did. "That they used it there. That it was the key to the victory. That the state alchemists were the ones who actually derived a victory, all thanks to the stone of death – as they call it."

Slowly, he nodded in satisfaction. He liked getting praised. "Yes, that would be true."

"So you were there?" she asked again cautiously.

"I was the one with the stone."

It was joy, real joy, to look at her upset expression slowly turn into one of complete horror and disgust. She grabbed the sheets beneath her, as if the sheets would help her, and moved all the way to the wall, losing her breath. She looked like a scared child now, a child that has just seen a monster above its head. The look in her eyes reminded him so much of the look Ishbalans had before they turned into a lake of blood and slices of ragged skin scattered all over the wracks of their city.

But he did not have an urge to blow her up; no, she was far too dear and sweet in her fear- he got _priceless_ pleasure just by looking at her. For a moment he even considered to try and grab her hand, to see what would happen, but being stuck with a screaming lady wouldn't be fun. No, definitely not. It was time to calm her down and revive her trust in him. He liked when she trusted him, no matter how much he enjoyed the moment.

"I'm not going hurt you," he slowly said, though the words had little to no effect, "Relax."

She shook her head franticly "You – _killed_ – them. You killed Eathan's father and mother and…"

"That's exactly why you reacts so harshly." he calmly explained, "You feel guilty for trusting a man who killed your loved one's family. Completely normal. But for a second, forget about it…"

"NO!" her sharp scream cut him in the middle of a sentence. "It's a normal, basic, human thing to feel disgusted at something like – like – like…"

"…like tearing hundreds of people in pieces?" he continued her sentence. "No, no it isn't. What's normal is for humans is to feel the urge to survive and to kill."

"And moral…" she tried again, but he was quicker.

"Moral is just something that human beings made up to detain others from killing the whole human race. Just like God – merely human imagination that helps control the masses," he coldly said, "Basically, we are all animals with normal cravings for food, shelter, survival, reproduction. But when you add human feelings and longing for the extremes, terrible things happen. That's why there are moral codes, rules and punishments. That's why your parents trained you, like a _pet,_ to feel disgust at the barest mention of murder, to feel compassion when someone is sad and, lastly, to feel repulsion at animalistic bloodlust."

Although she still tried hard to be as distant as possible from him, there was now something else in her eyes- confusion. He opened a completely new book to her, something she had never dared to touch. Yet she still didn't want to give in that easily. "Well, _your _parents obviously never taught you that," she said in lack of a better response.

"I am just being true to my nature; breaking free," he said with a smile, "You are the one who 'intentionally stays ignorant in a situation such as this …"

"Just because you think it's right, it doesn't mean it is," she bitterly said, "Do you ever think about the people you kill?"

"All the time," he lightly answered.

"But how can you look at the pain in their eyes and never think about what hardships their families are forced to go through?" her voice nearly turned into a scream, "You're not the one to decide who'll live and who'll die. You say there is no God – why are you trying to be one? Ishabalans are just people living among us, normal people who have never harmed you! And yet you dare talk so lightly about killing them? Like it's _nothing_?" He could feel it in her voice and could see it in her tightened muscles – she wanted to hurt him with her words; make him realize what justice was. She wanted to invoke the sense of guilt in him so bad.

There was one problem with that – there was nothing to invoke.

He couldn't help but chuckle at her expression. Ah, she truly was cute when angry. Like a kid, like a small girl, like an angsty teenager learning about life. For a moment he wondered what a perfect little world did she live in, what a wonderful castle did she built for herself, all out of candy and dreams. A good girl, with a huge knowledge, with her long-time Ishbalan boyfriend to show her tolerant side – she must have been a student of a generation, top of the class, Miss perfect, everyone's dream girl.

Those like her were his favourite type. Watching them break, the sight of their dream-castles falling down like a pile of sand was really touching. "Do you love this state you live in?" he asked her.

Breathing heavily from excitement of her own speech she frowned in astonishment, "All you have to do is respond…"

"I asked you," he repeated, "do you love this state and trust in it?"

Slowly, she nodded.

"Then you are forgetting that the Ishbal conflict was lead by the state itself. I certainly wasn't the only one doing the killing. You never yelled at any other military man before, did you? Maybe I just did it a bit more _thoroughly_ than the others, but I did the same as them – I did my job. I'm not a racist, those people could have been of any skin-tone or nationality. I killed them purely for my own interests. To me, it's art – I don't expect **you** to understand. As weird as it might sound to you, it's nothing but fun and games to me. I've never gone around killing people on my own; I killed when I was told to. I followed their orders, quenching my thirst for blood and explosions at the same time. The state ordered me to – I am not the real murderer behind it. Well, except of those officers who wanted the stone back..." he thought out loud and smiled to himself, "But that is a completely different thing. What I'm trying to explain to you is that **you** are in the wrong here. You talk about justice and truth, yet you can't admit the truth to yourself. If it was socially acceptable, lots of murders would be performed every day. And if your boyfriend was of any other nationality, you wouldn't care to even think about the Ishbalans, just like I don't – am I right?"

She didn't answer.

His long and confusing monologue was certainly effective. There was a blur in her head now, he could see it from her expression, from the way her limbs fell limp beside her. She did not know whether to scream or nod – run or beg him for more.. It was the most insane thing she had ever heard, yet it was so _haunting_. It made her skin shiver and her senses awake. He was a sadist – there was no doubt about it – but he was so calm and reasonable that it all made sense. The book he had opened to her was getting more interesting now, though she could not quite define whether she liked it or not.

"You have no regrets?" she asked him in a thin voice. It was all she could say.

"Life is too short," he shrugged his shoulders. "I am well aware I am not what would be called 'a good guy'. But – I'm having fun." The corner of his mouth twitched and what she saw the first day in his eyes returned now.

There was only one word to describe it – madness.

He tried hard not to laugh while she stared blankly at him. He thought he could hear her brain working, her thoughts yelling at each other to the point where her head started to hurt. Shaking it in order to focus, she spoke, "Now I remember where I know your name from. The newspapers. Years ago, when you were arrested for – for –... those officers..."

Her voice was trembling. She feared to say the word "murder" – like it was a disease that could affect her, something contagious she might have started to like if said out loud.

"Good news spread fast," he smiled.

"And why did they release you?" she looked at him in askance.

He shrugged his shoulders with an innocent smile, "Good behavior? I served my sentence? My _charm_?"

His charm was certainly something that had made **her** doubt his maleficence.

The sun was going down behind her. The tea in her hands had gotten cold, but she didn't notice it. Letting her body relax on the pillows, she fixed her eyes on him, obviously still thinking what would be the best – or the most accepted – reply to his little lesson.

Finally, after a long dramatic pause she sighed and spoke, "If everybody was to start listening solely to their instincts – to kiss the passer-by in the street, to swear at the teacher, to steal an apple when hungry, to kill someone – wouldn't that be… too much?" "It does sound – well, **tempting,**" she let herself agree, "but who would be left alive? What would be the point? We would all just kill each other, rape the world and live in a constant chaos of never-ending _fun_ that would sooner or later turned into mindless torture."

He shook his head slowly, "I never said I wanted that. That is your conclusion." He smiled, "Which leads me to believe that you only listened to the part about the art of explosion and dead."

"How could I have not?" she asked, her voice completely calm now, "It was the first time I've heard something like _that._.."

"And Ishbal…?"

She gulped as if she was trying to swallow her own principles. "…was war, like any other. And in war, all is fair," she finally agreed, hands trembling because of her own words.

This made Kimblee more than joyful – it was the feeling of a teacher who saw an unbelievable progress in his students. So, there was more behind those plain brown eyes. When he wanted to explain the normality of the murder on the _battlefield_, they had called him crazy. But this girl, this completely normal girl, who lived in her perfectly safe bubble, actually understood him. Who would have known?

To his surprise, she was the first to talk. "You mentioned that you think about those people," she remembered, "And still, you don't feel… anything?"

That was, indeed, a strange feeling - for the first time, _ever_ perhaps, had someone talked about what he did so calmly. And not only was she calm, but she was also interested. Although she tried to hide it, there was a spark in her eyes, something that told him she did want to hear more, that she really was trying hard to understand. No one had ever done this and, frankly, he never cared. As long as they allowed him to do his job and as long as he did his job well, no questions were asked from either side. When they put him under lock and key it was too late for questions, for no one cared. And now, after all this time, this insignificant little girl got interested in his thoughts and views. How peculiar...

"I remind myself that they are human," he spoke in a voice quieter than usual and, strangely, much more serious, "I always remind myself that. One who kills must never forget how close to life _and_ death he is. I feel their life, their craving for it, their fear and their hope. I see their faces and I remember them – I try to remember them quite well, since there might be no one else who will." He grinned as if there was something funny, "But no, I do not regret it, like I said before. Because the same awaits me."

She was looking through the window. The sun had completely set behind the small hill and blackness spread over the previously blue colour of the sky. "You are not afraid," she said, more a statement than a question. Her voice was completely calm now and so close to a whisper that, if there wasn't a deathly silence between them, he might have not heard it.

He answered her with a grin, "Death is an exciting game, don't you think?"

There was a pause; a long and deadly pause and the room became full of shadows. Like Death itself listened in to their conversation – or so he liked to think: it was an exciting thought. He was always excited when he faced the death. He was excited when talking about it and fighting against it, but he was excited the most when he was helping it. In the silence, he couldn't even hear its hollow breaths.

Then, all of a sudden, she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes were jaded and there was now a shadow beneath them, like they had become heavy-lidded over the past few seconds, like the talk made her extremely exhausted. For a moment she was very silent and then, in a rough, quiet voice, she agreed.

"Yes. Death _is_ quite interesting..."


	4. Chapter 4: Conduct disorder

_A/N: So, the months passed from my last update and I'm terribly sorry about that. I had exams and after them I did not have much enthusiasm to write. But, here it is, the new chapter, all nice and shiny._

_Well, not really._

_Also thank you for your comments, if there wasn't for them, I would probably delay this update even more. :)_

**WARNING:** The following chapter might be disturbing as it involves very graphic violence. And just to make you sure, it's all work of fiction, none of this is based on actual events.

**IV - **Conduct disorder

…" _**is a disorder of childhood and adolescence that involves long-term (chronic) behavior problems" which include, among other thighs, lack of empathy, cruelty to animals, using the weapons that can cause serious physical harm, defiant or impulsive behavior and breaking rules without obvious reason.**_

Days passed incredibly slowly. It was the same feeling she had whenever she would lay, sleepless, in the middle of the night and count the ticks of the clock. Only now that feeling had lingered for days. On top of that, she was nailed to the bed due her injured leg that still hurt her from time to time.

Kimblee was amazingly kind – he got her meals, helped her to the bathroom and made her tea. Sometimes he would stay to chat about simple things, about the book she was reading or ask if she needed clean sheets. One day he just showed up with a few combinations of various women clothes – from underwear to housedresses. She couldn't help but look extremely surprised. "T-Thank you," she muttered. "But – wow – you're really taking care of me so..." she trailed away.

He smirked, placing the pile on the bed, "It's just clothes. And it's not even new."

She was observing the blue dress with laced collar. It looked old-fashioned, but otherwise pretty new, "Whose is it?"

Surprisingly, Kimblee did not answer. He just turned around and she couldn't see the look on his face. "Tell me," he spoke, voice sounding absent, "if you need help with changing."

"It's not like I have a choice," she joked, but before she could add anything else, he was already out of the door.

After a few days, Imogene had a mess in a head. She knew who this man was. She knew he killed and he enjoyed it. But at the same time he acted so natural, like any other man she met everyday – she would even dare to say that he was more polite. It was weird – to kidnap her and then take this good care of her. It didn't make much sense and all she could say to her own mind as an answer was that this man, obviously, was a very peculiar kind of a person. Someone you meet only once in your lifetime.

A gentle killer. The one who remembers his victims.

And the most frightening thought of them all was that she _trusted_ him. All of a sudden, the fact that he kept her locked there didn't seem to matter. It wasn't so bad, after all, all the clothes, food, polite conversations. All of it fascinated her. Who would have thought that the most well-mannered person she would probably ever meet was a psychopathic murder? How could that even be true? Could this man really be the one responsible for so many deaths at Ishbal?

That picture didn't fit with the one she had in front of herself.

It was all too interesting, to say the least. The tone of his voice, his white, neat suit, the way he was eager to help her… She wasn't stupid and she knew that there was more than met the eye. Yet her other part could not help but feel completely mesmerized by his mere appearance. How foolish of her – yet, how exciting.

As if he had heard her thoughts, his steps were heard coming up the door. As an well trained-dog, she instantly turned her head, not even noticing how nervously she started to comb her hair with fingers. He walked in through the door, but carried nothing this time. "Good evening." Politely as always he spoke, "How is your leg?"

She nodded in greeting. "Hurts more today than usual," she admitted, secretly hoping for a reaction and examination of the wound.

Yet, as always, he did opposite of what she expected. Leisurely, he walked over to the arm chair and sat in it. "The weather is changing," was his whole explanation of her pain.

Imogene couldn't help but feel a touch of disappointed. "And why are you here?" in a pouting voice she asked.

"I was bored," he simply explained.

There was something different about him this time – like he did come with a purpose, but definitely not to help her. His sneaky smirk told her that. She already got used to the fact that it only took a moment or a word for him to turn from a mannered gentleman to a murderous alchemist. He fit in both roles quite well. "Oh, so I'm an entertainment?" she asked, fiercer now.

His intention wasn't to debate. He raised his eyebrows and looked at her, "And am I not yours?"

She couldn't argue that.

He leaned back into the chair, observing her doubtful face for a few moments before speaking up, "If we need to spend some time here together, why not at least make it interesting?"

She tried not to look at him, feeling as if he could read from her face how much she wanted to ask him something about himself. Their conversations did entertain her, mostly because she found his every single world valuable. All of them could tell her a story about him, she reasoned. Even the simple phrases he used, even the tone of his voice – it all told her, between the lines, who he was, what were his habits, how educated was he. It was the simple things that mattered – if he would use '_Hi'_ or _'Good morning'_, when would he call her miss, how often did he use and how skilled he was at sarcasm… But she was **hungry** for more. She wanted to ask him hundred questions, to see what story he had to tell. The way he spoke was so enchanting and it was obvious that it was his previous monologue that bewitched her so.

But he did not waste any time and she had no chance to ask him what she wanted. He was already the one leading the conversation, "So, do you like the book you're reading?"

A simple question. Nothing more. She bit her lip in anger – he really could try and be more imaginative. "It's quite alright."

"Not enjoying the romantic stories?"

She stared at him for a few moments in confusion – how could he have forgotten, when he was the one who gave her the book? "It's not a romantic story. It's a thriller about a murder, remember?" He did not answer, just smirked. It was enough for her to realize what he meant and to start laughing. "Oh. Oh, yes, _romantic_ story," she laughed out loud to her own silliness, "Well, I must admit it's a bit too light."

"I did not want to push too much in that pretty head," he said as if he cared.

This made the edge of her mouth twitch, "You underestimate me."

"No," slowly he responded, looking directly into her eyes, "But you're tired… Your legs hurt… And besides, if the book was any more interesting we would have to talk about it now and we would ignore some more interesting topics."

She felt as if something in her chest tightened with a mixture of excitement and abeyance. She could have known it wasn't the book he wanted to chat about, but she could not precisely predict what would their subject be. "The stone?" she guessed.

He casually nodded his head. "I did not have anything specific in the mind, but that could do."

It was confusing. Well, she knew that he was confusing even before, but did anything about this man make any sense? Why would he come here to talk to her about _something_ if he didn't have a specific thing in mind that he wanted to know? That didn't make any sense!

And that made him even more interesting.

Her mind raced like crazy – she was solving the puzzle, even if there wasn't one. What did he want and why? Who was he? Why was he so eager to talk to her? And, most importantly, why was she so eager to talk to him back?

With all these thoughts she did not even notice the awkward silence that fell over the room – but he did. "You're thinking of something…" he had to point out. "And – let me guess – it's about me."

She let out a strange sound that resembled chuckle. "You are so sure of yourself."

"It is my charm, I believe."

Oh, damn it, he was right.

Sighing deeply, Imogene looked away. "If you don't know what you want to talk about, why are you here?" she asked.

"I told you before," he replied, "I ought to make our stay here interesting."

"Then we could chat about the book…"

"But you'll agree you and I both know so much more interesting things than this clichéd thriller novel. Or do you think differently?"

Looking at sheets, she was silent for the moment, before daring to look him in the eye again. "No, you are quite right sir. We are more interesting. But…" she was desperate to know, "why do you think _I_ am interesting?"

And there it was again – that smirk, not amused, but not sly either. It drove her mad! How could she ever guess what was in his mind when her put that mask, that smirk, on his face!His mouth would tell one thing and his smirk would deny it at the same time. There was a constant battle around his mouth and she could never tell which side was winning. "I didn't think I would have to explain this, but if you really want to know…"

"I do."

"Well…" his smirk stretched even more, "after our conversation from the other day I have a reason to believe that there is more to you than meets the eye.

Only now did she notice that her fingertips were freezing. They shook from the cold – or perhaps she wanted to believe that the cold was the cause of it. Swallowing with anguish, she spoke with less confidence than before, "A lucky guess?"

"Patient observation," he answered with a victorious smile.

She could not keep it in her anymore. Despite the feeling of a rock stuck in her throat, she felt an urge to speak, to say her thoughts out loud, partly because she wished for him to hear them and partly because she wished to hear herself, how would they sound said freely and out loud. "You are intriguing me," she admitted, looking away again, this time in a bit of shame which she did not want to expose. "I didn't have the opportunity to have many discussions similar to the one we had the other day – and it _aroused_ me, in lack of a better word. I kind of … _liked_ what I heard…"

It was a pleasant surprise to his ears. Her words, _actually_, made him interested.

And beside explosions, not many things were truly interesting to him.

He relaxed even more in his armchair. "Where did this change of attitude come from, young lady?" he grinned.

She sighed and answered in a cold voice, "I wouldn't exactly call it a change of attitude. I just… never… never really talked like this to anyone..."

Kimblee felt victorious. He was right – he knew that all along, but who doesn't like a little praise now and then? And beside homunculus, no one really praised him for his thoughts and ways. "Just like I always say," he slowly spoke, "people tend to lock up their true nature and shut their mouths because of the world. **I** _never_ did that. But it's much easier to express your extreme side when you're in an extreme situation."

That was true. Here, in the house where every contact with anyone she knew died, with the man who was a convinced murderer and sadist who enjoyed in the art of explosions, she felt like everything was different. Not only her life, her room, her thoughts, but even the air was different – it was much heavier and penetrating to her lungs, making it hard to breath and talk at the same time… yet every breath was worth it. She had never found oxygen so valuable, because it was always just _there._

She could have died. She had been so close to death, anyone could have killed her any moment because of the book she was carrying with her. Yet she survived, all thanks to her – she realized – still unknown saviors and this gentleman who was willing to keep her here.

To her, it felt like it was a new universe she had stepped in, the world on the opposite side of the mirror, a sanctuary, keeping the real world outside – this was a place for her thoughts and feelings. It all seemed so fictive. But as far as she was concerned, it could have even been a dream, she didn't care. She started to enjoy in the voice of this strange man and all the weird thoughts he put in her mind.

That heavy air would be the best and only description of the atmosphere- she felt in her bones. It was heavy, it was strange, it was unlike anything she had ever felt before, but she grew to like it so fast. It felt _**terribly**_ natural. Like she had waited her whole life to come here and talk to this Solf J. Kimblee. All that happened before, it was all just a grain of sand. _This_ is where the game began. _This_ is where she finally started to listen and feel, like she had woken up all of her senses at last.

Here she could speak the truth. Finally, the truth.

Kimblee's face was now in a soft shadow and it was much harder to see the sparkle in his eyes. "Now you've got me _really_ interested, Imogene. You don't mind if I call you Imogene, right?" he asked and, not waiting for her answer, he continued, "I'm all ears to hear the whole story. I told you my experience, and now I would like you to share yours with me. Such harsh words have to be explained." "You have a nice tone to your voice and," he spread his arms and snickered, "it's not like we have anything else to do here."

"Would you tell me your story – starting from the beginning?" he encouraged her. His voice and attitude were like that of a psychiatrist. Like he was there all because of her, wanting nothing more than to hear her story and help her deal with herself – whatever that might have meant.

He was terribly mesmerizing and it looked amazingly natural. He didn't seem like he was trying at all. Imogene wasn't sure if it was because of that or the fact that she wanted to talk so bad. In the end, she cleared her throat and began the soliloquy.

"It's very strange to meet you," she admitted. Her voice still sounded rough and dry, like she hadn't used it for a long time, yet words just flew from her mouth. Kimblee knew that every word said was firstly slowly analyzed inside her head and was, therefore, priceless, "I've never met anyone like you. I've never heard such words. Except, perhaps, inside my head."

"And each time I heard them I shut them up. I just killed them and shot them, characterizing them as glimpses of absent mind or madness – depending on how critical I was" she turned her head and bit her lip, getting more aroused by her own talk, "But they were mine. They were - just - _mine_. They would warm me up when I was alone before I went to sleep, and chill me when I was in the crowd. Just the thought that I had something that is completely my own and solemn was really getting me excited. The world is always giving you formulas on how to live and you follow them. You laugh in happiness and cry at death, you eat the right food, you find a lover, reproduce with him and love him – nothing more, nothing less. And when you don't follow the formula, you lose. You lose freedom, you lose sense, you lose love."

He couldn't have said it better himself.

"But they can never find what is underneath, can they? If you just think about it, no one gets hurt. I figured that out pretty fast, I must admit. Locking ourselves in the deepest cell of the mind must be essential thing for human race. If we let our animals within run wild, we lose it all. I made myself think I was free, but listening to you and how you feel – now I know it was all a charade. I guess I haven't admitted this to myself since I was a child."

He nodded to himself and interrupted her talk with an observation, "Ah, children are so dear – so true to themselves and their nature."

"True," she agreed, "I was too. My mother always said I was completely different when I was child. That is, _before_ they made me go to the psychiatrist."

So, the interesting part of her wasn't _so_ hidden, after all.

It was one of those details you never tell to anyone. Part of you and your life that you keep under the lock, hoping that no one will ever find a key. Why did it feel so good, then, now that this man managed to find that key?

It was mixture of feelings, a rush of them, inside of her. It was the feeling of having a heavy burden on your back for your whole life. You have to carry it around trying your best not to drop it on the floor. It could be easily broken and last thing you want is for that burden to be broken and exposed.

But once you put that burden aside, once it touches the ground, once you don't have it on you back, you start to feel the hole it dent in your spine. It's the feeling of someone tearing out a part of you, a part you hate, but a part that was the core of your life for so long. Such a strange, strange feeling. She was excited and scared at the same time because of the fact she finally met someone who could help her with that burden. She dealt with it for far too long and now it was hard to express what was inside of that burden.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise and delight. "Psychiatrist?" he asked, prompting her to continue to open that drawer of secrets to him.

"Yes," she confirmed. "I tried really hard to lock that up and forget about it, though," she drawled in her speech.

"Well, now it's the time to unlock it."

Yes, yes. He was right. Better late than never.

"When I was eight she took me to a psychiatrist; she was really disturbed, my mother," she began to explain, not looking in his eyes, "I was strange as a child, like I mentioned. Never with friends, always with my nose in the books. Naturally, that wasn't what worried her. It was my pet rabbit."

Pet rabbit? Was this girl sane at all?

"To be exact, it was a state she found him in. **Dead**."

She made a dramatic pause like a diva in her show, letting the one-man audience sort the feelings.

She didn't need the pause as Kimblee didn't really need much to sort his feelings. It was easy to describe them – he was simply quite amused. "You killed it?" he asked in voice of someone who is excited for realizing the plot.

"Yes," she said calmly, although her hands and body were shaking. The world in front of her eyes was blurry and so many things were screaming inside her head – like she could hear the whole world suddenly. "At the time I was quite fascinated by historical books and there was something about ruthless leaders that was so interesting. Their ways of torture were interesting, I had to admit. Kids easily get impressed by those kinds of things. They always want to play kings and queens, make fights between knights and save princesses. **I** wanted to try their torturing methods."

"I had that rabbit, a small baby rabbit, for less than two months. I got it for my birthday, but I can't say I cared about it. I did pet it here and there, but most of the times I would tie it to the leg of table and stretch his legs to simply study his anatomy. That one day I had no intentions of hurting him, surprisingly. I remember – I remember as through a fog – that my parents made me angry. It was because of some of those silly things kids get worked up about. I gave them the silent treatment by marching angrily to my room and taking a rabbit with me. I started petting him and murmuring to myself all the awful things I wanted to say to my parents. I petted him, petted him and it relaxed me so much that I started to move my hands over his fur faster with every second. Soon I forgot about my parents and stopped murmuring. I just stood there with that white, small ball of fur in my hands, petting it as if my life depended on it."

She made a pause and let out a chuckle with no trace of amusement in it whatsoever. In her eyes there was a strange glow, something between fear and laughter, between enjoyment and sadness. Her lips were dry from all the talking. She licked them, ignoring the cup of cold tea beside her and gathered strength to continue her confession.

"It didn't take long before petting became harsh and… violent. The rabbit got scared, he tried to get away, but I didn't let him. It amused me - it amused me _so_ much and I imagined that I felt his horror under my fingertips. I enjoyed in his painful expression and the feeling of his ruffed hair felt so nice to me that I wanted to see what would happen next, if I cross the line. The petting soon became scratching and now I didn't feel only his hair but his skin underneath as well. He wiggled in my hand, but there was no use. I was able to hold him only with my one palm, that's how small he was, how hopeless. His movements meant nothing, as there was no way that he could **ever** escape – and I had no intentions of letting him go. The more he wiggled the more I squeezed him, trying to make sure he won't slip under my fingers. I continued to scratch his back more violently, trying really hard to see if I could scratch under his skin.

"I remember the adrenalin I felt – my heart was throbbing with excitement as much as his little heart was throbbing with the fear. I was _curios_ and excited. It can't be explained as happiness since, no, no, it wasn't that. Happiness you feel when you are relaxed but this was – this was enthusiasm and _ecstasy_... And soon it became a frenzy. I knew it was wrong, but I was far too enchanted by his uncontrolled moves to think about what could happen. As a matter of fact I wanted to see what _would_ happen. I wanted to see for once what does actually happen when you _go too far_. They always tell you not to and you know that **things** happen when you cross the line – but what does actually happen? What _can _possibly happen? It was so fun, it couldn't be bad… could it?"

"And finally, I felt it. I felt the moisture under my nails and fingertips. The rabbit squealed from the pain finally – that was the only sound I've ever heard from him for those two months. I stopped and gazed into product of what I've done. His fur was messy and there were few lines, freshly cut lines going down his back. Gashes, four strawberry coloured gashes were slowly bleeding making white hair around them light pink, then turning into crimson. I liked the colours. White and red, they suit so perfectly, don't they?

"I imagined how relived the rabbit was, even though he was still glancing around with fear and craze, shivering every time I would move the hand that held him. But I didn't mean to stop there, no. There must have been more, I've done things like that before and it wasn't enough, no. That wasn't what _going too far_ meant; it was only a beginning for me. So I took the piece of rope tying him slowly to table leg in order to keep him still. As if he knew what will happen, he tried to run away once again, but his efforts were useless. I was determined to open a completely new door and my whole energy was focused on not letting the little animal escape. There was no way I would let him go now that I went **that** far. Without any doubts I got the scissors from my drawer and pressed them to his skin, right under the head. His little eyes looked at me, directly at me, and for a second my hand trembled. I knew _that_ was the moment when it was getting serious, it was that '_going too far'_ everyone talked about – all it would take was one small movement of a hand and I would be crossing the line. And I knew was that_ I _was holding a really important line at the moment – the line between life and death. Just a thin line, thin as a hair, separated merely by a movement of my hand. It was fascinating to know it was that easy to just kill someone, to end their life, to end their everything. There could have easily been someone else behind me holding a knife to my throat, I knew that very well. The thought of it excited me. It made me realize how we are always – every single moment, every single breath – just an inch away from death itself. It could grab us and pull us into a dark pit, just as I was planning to pull that poor animal. I held the string of his life just as someone – anyone – around me held the string of mine. But the funnies thing was, as you mentioned, that I was not afraid. I did not stop to think for a moment more. I just pressed those scissors as a hard as I could to his fur, skin and flesh, and I pushed them hard all until there was finally a soft, red, sticky liquor on my skin. It was as if someone squeezed the kid's toy-bomb filled with red paint – suddenly it burst, without a warning, making no sound, leaving horrible traces all over me and all over the floor and the fur."

"I still remember that feeling vividly – the feeling of my hand finally pushing the blade though the soft flesh. It's something that can't be forgotten easily," she added, though there was no need for that. It was quite obvious that she still saw the scene in front of her eyes as if she was living it through all over again. In them there was nothing but shadows now – she wasn't aware if she was alone in the room or not anymore. Shaking from head to toe, it was easy to imagine her as a child, shaking just like that in front of the bleeding animal. Fragile and tiny in her sheets, cowering in the shadows, she was a child to Kimblee. This all was so new to her that he felt as if it was his moral obligation to show her the ways to handle it. He even thought about standing up and holding her hand in comfort, but she opened her mouth to show that her story was not over – she had a lot more on her soul, a burden she had been carrying with her for such a long time that she was eager to throw it all away before her spine broke down. And despite of that all, her voice was calm and still.

"The animal – the rabbit – it was bleeding. His blood was all over my palm now. I did not feel sick, I did not feel repulsed – just a little shocked by my own calmness, that's all. I pushed the blade further and further. It was dead by now, since I obviously sliced right through its main artery A fast death, he didn't suffer much. It almost made me _disappointed_. But my curiosity – pushed with a sudden glimpse fun – didn't end there. I pushed the scissors even more, cutting slowly, and observing what was going on as I did so. I did not mind the blood and the only thing that worried me was will it be washed from my white shirt. It would be a shame to ruin it. But even that didn't stop me: I was morbidly curious to see how far I could go. It was not about the animal now – it was about me, my own limits. I wanted to see if I had them," she gave a chuckle, "I didn't.

"The head finally fell off, making a light bump sound when it touched the ground. There was now red circle on the carpet. The rest of the body was helplessly hanging from the rope. It was pretty hard to think that it was dead now, but I finally realized it really was by poking it. The idea that only a few moments ago it was alive seemed inconceivable. The little animal had been breathing like me, observing like me, his heart was bumping like mine till that very moment. Now there was nothing, just a shell, a thing made out of flesh, blood and bones that could easily be a doll. _It could have been me_, I whispered to myself. I could be tied up to that leg table, I could be bleeding there, my blood could be on someone's hands. And yet all I felt was my heart bumping and my hands shaking."

"I finally untied the lifeless body of what was my pet once and took it in my hands. They were both bloody now, but it was nothing compared to the carpet. I calmly moved the toy-car I had on the floor over the stain, as if it could hide the crime I've done. It was really a silly thought; something only a child can think of – when the main evidence of my deed was a head of the rabbit right beside it, blood still slowly dripping from it. The eyes were still open and they looked at me, though it was no different than two marbles looking it me - there was no doubt they were dead as there wasn't even a trace of life in them anymore. Not thinking about anything else, the past or the future, I went out of the room, carrying a dead body.

My parents ignored me; they were too busy with their own things. All they did was mutter a few words about how I finally got out of the room, but they didn't even glance at me. I would be angry at a different time, but then, I was grateful. I could easily stroll to the kitchen without any questions or awkward situations. Ironically, walking with a dead body through the house was one of the easiest things I have ever done. I just went, paraded through the whole house, all the way from my room to the huge stew-pan full of boiling water. It seemed as if it was there waiting for me. I was just tall enough to reach to the top of it and watch the body fall right down to it, spilling some drops of hot water around it, one landing on my arm. The body made a light sound when it hit the bottom. It was the same sound that anything made when it fell to the bottom of saucepan with water. To that pan, body of one rabbit was no different from a plushy bear or gummy toy. And why would it be – none of those were alive."

"And then I stood there, just glancing through the steam at the headless body of my pet, my birthday gift. The water was now slowly turning red from the blood that was still coming out of where his life ended. The mixture of blood and water dancing around his white, wet fur, painting it like an aquarelle picture – it was kind of enchanting. I didn't think of it as the life I ended – I thought of it as a project I made for myself. Just an experiment to see how far one can go and if there were any consequences. The first part was done. The rest was just waiting for me."

She finally turned her eyes to look at him – that simple movement made her feel dizzy. It was like the whole room had turned around her now that she was back in the reality. Her lips were dry from talking and sorrow, but her hands were wet, soaking in her sweat. It was only then that she noticed that she was squeezing the sheets in front of her chest, like a child. She felt cold, really cold, but not from the chilly night that finally took over the scenery, but from her own thoughts. It was that kind of cold that no blanket could fight; it was the kind of cold that could be stopped only by a hug, a hug of someone like mother. It was the same kind of cold that overcame her while she was standing by that stew-pan, shaking from head to toe, feeling the tears on her cheeks and a scream building up in her lungs.

Her mother didn't hug her then and she surely couldn't hug her now.

The man – Kimblee – sat there casually like he had just read some quite interesting book. He, luckily, did not have a smile on his face, but it was obvious that he was really interested in her story. His cold eyes were alive with intrigue, fixating her with attention. Surely, she wasn't expecting sympathy from him, but only a little bit of compassion or a sign that he at least realized that a girl, a young girl, ruthlessly tortured and killed a rabbit, a small fluffy, cute baby rabbit with her own hands. There was obviously nothing strange to him in the image of her hands soaked with animal blood that she had just described quite graphically.

"Parents came when they heard me scream," she felt she needed to tell the epilogue to him, "I don't even know why I screamed. I wasn't shocked, I wasn't scared, I wasn't disgusted. I just felt that scream was the only reasonable reaction I could make. I did not feel like smiling and I did not feel like running. I felt like screaming, like letting that huge ball of emotions and thrill finally get out of my body in some way. I still felt the thrill, yes. My hands were shaking, my body was trembling, my eyes were tearing. If someone would have asked me back then what I felt, I could have never described it. I guess I would just scream and scream until they made me stop. That was pretty much how it happened. When my parents ran to kitchen, I was standing still, in spite of trembling, and _screaming_. They tried to ask me what had happened and only after a while did they realize that the boiling water was starting to burst out of the pen and that, in fact, it _wasn't_ water but a mixed compound of water and blood. They looked at the pan and – what a surprise was waiting for them in there! Surely they never imagined seeing a dead rabbit floating in the water. Or, well, at least what was left of the dead rabbit.

It was all happening in splinters of a second now. My mother's eyes widened with shock and horror, her face went pale. I was still screaming, louder than ever it seemed. And in that very second, my father turned around and slapped me right across my face – obviously quickly realizing it was me all along. He was a smart man. And he never liked how strange I was as a child," she frowned at the thought of her father. She moved her gaze from Kimblee's face and was now staring her hands, while biting the skin of her lips. She tried to remember if there was anything important about those following moments that would be relevant to her story. Lots of things did happen, naturally – her father's yells, mixing with her mother's undefined words of horror. A few more hits and her body slamming down on the floor. Her father's questions about what had happened and her, still unbelievably calm, explanations.

She could have described the look on their faces when they saw the head; she could have described how they looked at her with fear – a fear of their own daughter. Like they imagined her with a knife over their throats. She could even bring out the amusing fact that she had even thought _what if it really was them and not the rabbit_. But no, no, the main point was told and there was not much more that could be interesting in this confession of hers. "After that, mother found a psychiatrist. She met me nearly every day, teaching me about how awful the thing I had done was. She taught me about life and death and the importance of moral. It was her who told me what I tried to fight your arguments with earlier today. It seemed all reasonable back then – or maybe she had just repeated it far too many times for me to even remember any good reason why she shouldn't be right. I can't say I completely changed, but I knew the consequences and what would happen if you go too far and try to feed your curiosity," she sighed deeply, remembering the woman who became like her second mother.

It didn't matter if she had been telling the truth to her or not, the fact was that it was that woman who taught her half of the things she knew today. It was her who got her interested in alchemy and her who made her thirst for sick researches about tortures into long nights of practicing alchemy. It was all in the energy, she was right. She needed equal energy for both things and, even thought they didn't fill her up equally, once that she was done with the practice she did not have the energy for the researches anymore. The man was right, she was a pet, but was there any other way to live? No, probably not. A life full of killing rabbits was not something her parents would ever let her live. "The only thing that has bugged me ever since," she decided to end her monologue there, "was the adrenalin rush that I felt then and never again."

It was a confession she never told anyone, that she never even dared to whisper to herself – but something made it easy to get it over her lips now. Maybe it was this man himself. He was so calm and patient, like her psychologist back then. He did not ask for explanations, he did not judge her and she could tell him anything, _anything_ in the world, without having second thoughts. It didn't matter if he was friend or foe. What mattered was that she knew, she was hundred percent positive, that he knew how she felt even if she didn't use many words to describe it. It was much easier to tell it all to him than to anyone she had ever known. He was a stranger, a new person in her life, that had absolutely no opinion of her in his mind that could be warped.

She could build that image of herself however she wanted. What she wanted was to show him that little part of her only she knew till then. She wanted to _play_ – to play with herself, to see if she could express it in the best way, to see if the ceiling would crush down on her head if she was to admit all those things. It was like back then. It was all about pushing limits and waiting for the verdict. And yet, nothing happened. Not even a pebble fell on her head nor did he jump up to beat her like her father did. What he did in the next moment was completely unpredictable and it surprised her more than if he slapped her across the face.

Calm as always he stood up and walked through the shadows and dark of the room to her bed. She was still shaking and squeezing the sheets, biting her lips, suppressing the tears in her eyes, but as he came to her she suddenly felt fearful of what he might do next. With no warning he just sat on a small clean part of the bed beside her and put a palm with transfiguration circle over her sticky hand that was squeezing the material.

"Shhh, it's okay. Calm down," in soft, smooth voice he whispered. She wasn't sure if the smile he had was friendly or cunning. "I understand and I'm aware of everything you said. And it's incredibly brave of you to say something like that after all those years and all those restrictions. Come on, don't be afraid." He raised his other hand and put it on her head, moving fingers though her hair, which was still slightly wet from the bath. For reasons unknown this seemed to calm her, his words and his soft touch. It was like a comfort she had never felt from her parents when she needed it – the same comfort she felt at the psychiatrist's office. "Lay your head down and relax," he whispered even softer, but she was sure now that the smile on his lips was the satisfied one. The smile of an animal perhaps. His hand on her scalp suddenly felt really heavy and all she could think of as it went down her hair was the feeling she had under the nails when she petted the fur of a terrified rabbit. He could easily kill her now – he didn't even need a knife like she did. He was an alchemist and if he wanted he could kill her right – on - the - _spot_.

Something in this thought made her shiver and breath faster – but not from a fear.

Yet, he didn't do any such thing. After he felt her body tense he moved his hands, obviously confused about it. "You should sleep now," he advised her and stood up as soon as she listened to his advice, touching a pillow with a head, "Sleep, and we'll see what we can do about your wounds in the morning. Good night."

With no further talks, touches or smiles, he gallantly turned around and left the room. She was left all alone in the silence, still trying to normalize her breaths. And yet, strangely enough, the sleep was pulling her in. Despite the mess that was in her head, her body was exhausted from the battle, from the pain, from the thoughts themselves.

Glancing at the shadows in the corner of the room she closed her eyes, feeling rather unstable. This was a strange evening. It was like a time machine, like she was kid again, like she was living through it all over again while talking about it. She even felt unstable in the dark right now, like the shadows were watching her. It was a ridiculous thought, but so was the thought that she was to be kidnapped. It took her less than twenty-four hours to realize that some things were much more real than they seemed and, she guessed, so were the shadows.

But it didn't matter. It didn't matter if there _was_ something in the shadow, because the man downstairs, Kimblee, would **surely ** protect her.

**A/N:** Don't say I didn't warn you.

Also, I am aware that Imogene doesn't have all the symptoms of Conduct disorder, but it suited better than the other psychological disorders.


	5. Chapter 5: Fixations

_ A/N: First, thank you for motivational comments and for adding this story to your faves! Although I didn't update for long, I did keep my eye on that and I appreciate everything! So, here's the new chapter and hopefully I will write some more over the summer. 8| _

_Enjoy! :3_

**V - **Fixations

…"_**strong attachment to a person or thing, especially formed in childhood, manifested in immature or neurotic behavior that persist thought life." – quote by LovelyWeather**_

As soon as the doctor left the room, Imogene turned her head and asked, "You have the philosopher's stone? _**Here**_?" She obviously hadn't wanted to comment earlier on in front of an unknown person.

Kimblee smirked to himself. He was eagerly waiting to see her reaction as soon as he got an order to use the stone to heal her. Last evening, after he put her to bed and went downstairs, Pride crawled out of the shadows, out of nowhere – as usual. He wanted to see if there was anything peculiar about the girl. Kimblee gave a brief report about how she found out about the stone, though he kept most of their conversations for himself – there was nothing interesting in it for Pride, no matter how much he himself was amused. He knew that the girl didn't mean anything to the homunculus as long as she was locked off somewhere – they thought about using her as a human sacrifice but, truth be told, there were many better candidates for that "position". All homunculi wanted of her was not to walk around freely knowing the secret of the stone. They did not need a problem like her now that they were so close to the culmination of the Plan.

The only reason Pride sent the doctor was because Kimblee had insisted on it. There was nothing generous or benevolent in that demand; the first – and only - person he thought about was himself, of course. Even though they did put him there to keep an eye on the girl, he had no intentions of baby-sitting, preparing tea, bringing her medicine or following her to the bathroom (even though he had to admit, that time she took a bath was _pretty_ interesting). He was a polite, mannered man, but he wasn't her – or anyone else's - servant.

The situation was completely the other way round.

The gold-toothed doctor came first thing in the morning. Kimblee didn't even get to drink his morning coffee in peace. He wasn't really happy about it, but this man helped him a lot not so long ago and he did know how to value people who did their job right and were willing to help. Offering the doctor a cup of coffee (which he declined), he took him right to the room where Imogene was lying, obviously in pain. It seemed the wound was getting worse, as Kimblee knew only basic medicine and could not help her much.

Still sleepy, she was biting her lips to the point of bleeding, trying not to think about the pain in her leg. She muttered 'it hurts really bad', but even before she could explain how badly, Kimblee brought out the stone and handed it to the doctor.

Her face was indescribable. A mixture of shock and fascination, as if she was seeing God himself. Kimblee could see the greed in her eyes, the lust for that little crimson stone between his fingers.

It was the same face she had even now, gazing up at him after the doctor had left – he liked how she looked upon him with awe. She, perhaps, had no idea what she would do with the stone, but the craving for simply _touching_ it overwhelmed her body and only now did he see her in full strength. All the ambition, all the knowledge, all the years of research were drawn on her face. It was a usual expression of a selfish, pretentious alchemist that he, himself, had.

He didn't reply immediately, inspecting her freshly healed leg. There was no trace of the wound beside some crusted blood that didn't wash up under the bandage. The stone was magnificent – that huge injury of Gluttony's teeth, full of his infectious, slimy spit was just water under the bridge now. As if he wanted to make sure there was nothing left of the bite, he gallantly put his hand on the place where moments ago a bloody red half-moon had been, gliding his fingers over it. He could feel how, for a brief moment, her leg trembled. Her skin was soft and cold as much as it was pale. Recently shaved, he noticed, which must have meant she hadn't left her house a long time ago. Gluttony and Envy hadn't caught her on a long-distance travel; perhaps she had just taken a walk. Were her parents worried that she didn't come back?

Imogene, obviously, wasn't thinking about the same thing as him. Her expression was full of urge to repeat her question, mixed with a little bit of awkwardness. There was **nothing** about her parents in her head now. It was all about the stone and his hand, still smoothly fondling her skin. Her tongue licked her lips in impatience – she did that quite often, he noticed.

She still did not say a word still, even though his fingers had now passed the part where the wound used to be. They were now going over her knee, exploring how long it would take her to do something, say something, at least avert her eyes from them. Not yet, no, **still** nothing. Did she _want_ him to continue? Well, he certainly _could,_ since the cool and silky feeling of her dainty skin, that noticeably heated under his touch, was quite pleasurable for someone who had spent the last six years touching nothing but the cold surface of the cell walls. Touching a woman's leg was **never** a chore.

The line just above the knee – every millimeter made her tense more and he could _**feel**_ it. He could feel under his very fingers on her skin everything that was going on in and out side of her. How her thoughts mixed and buzzed, how her spine straightened, how her eyes stared hypnotized, how dry her lips were and how the small hair at the base of her neck bristled. Was it him or the stone? Ah, well, maybe just an inch more so he could be sure…

"The stone," her voice, sharp as a knife, cut the moment short as she suddenly raised her head. Those strict hazel eyes met his and, although there was doubt in them, she was definitely concentrated about one thing now. And it definitely wasn't him, but rather what was **with** him. "The stone," she repeated, lifting the eyebrows, "you have it." It was a statement, not a question.

Sneering, he nodded, hiding his palm in his pocket now. "I told you I do."

"No, you told me you **had** it, at Ishbal," she remembered vividly that part of their talk, "I did not really expect they'd let you keep a _souvenir_ in jail."

He took his palm out of the pocket again – this time holding a stone up so she could see it. It wasn't the same stone, true – the one he had at Ishbal was lost while fighting the older Elric. This one was the stone that Envy gave him, but what difference did it make? It was the round ball he could mesmerize her with, which he had every intention of doing. "The philosopher's stone," smoothly he named the round ruby, reverencing it with the tone of his voice, "I _subtly_ hid it with myself all that time. It kept me company; you know, not to feel alone on the dark nights in prison. And it did its job well, I must say. The mere colour of it would bring me up – _crimson_. It reminded me of the crimson eyes pleading for life and blood on the white robes of Ishabalans when I killed them with - _this_ – _**very**_ – stone."

Reaction.

He waited for it.

But her eyes were fixed on the pebble and for her there was nothing else now. She did not care about Ishbalans and who would **ever** care about them with this little _glory_ in the room? If he told her he had killed everyone outside this room, she wouldn't move an inch. He couldn't really blame her, for he was the same. Was there anyone who would react differently?

Even the moral and saint-like Edward Elric with his _resolve not to kill_ could not fight the lust for it.

Her eyes followed as he slowly moved his hand with the stone to his mouth. He could really _see_ her pupils' dilating as he swallowed the stone.After the last glint of its red colour was gone she sighed and looked through the window, like a child whose toys were taken away.

This was all entertaining, it was so much entertaining! A real blast! "How about a breakfast? You must be _famished,_" he generously offered, breaking the silence.

Before he could even raise his hand to support her if needed, she was on her – now healthy – legs.

Kimblee patiently observed Imogene over his cup of coffee. Her hair was messy from sleep, and so was her dress – it was the same one she had had on yesterday. She hadn't changed before she fell asleep, after their talk, it appeared. She was eating fast, especially for such a brittle-looking being. This was their first meal together, but she did not notice Kimblee looking and smirking at her. It was all good, she was starting to feel at home in his company.

Finally emptying the plate, she drank a full cup of milk – her second one – all at once, as if it were alcohol, and leaned back into her chair, sighing. She was staring into his eyes now, slowly licking her lips, as if she was thinking about what she could say. He was still watching her, smirking ever so slightly. Her bold, yet still confused face, was rather interesting – the way she didn't look back, the way one could read her thoughts just from her eyes, the way her tongue went over her chapped lips… He liked how strong her face seemed, compared to her delicate body.

"So," she finally spoke, breaking the awkward silence, "what now?"

"Now?" he raised his eyebrows, putting the cup of coffee on the table, "What do you mean by _what_ now?"

"What am I – what are _we_ – going to do?" she explained, "_Is _there anything to do?"

"Ah, you mean as work or entertainment?" he gave a little chuckle, "No, afraid I did not plan any fun program for you today."

She sighed in an annoyed tone, "I _meant,_ is there some house work or _something_ you intended for me to do while here? You know, as in, I am the hostage and you're taking advantage of me?"

This was getting ridiculous now – a hostage giving ideas to captor. This girl would never stop surprising him. "Do you **want** us to give you some work?" he laughed, "Would that suit you more? _Excite_ you?"

"No!" she immediately protested, but then fell silent as if wanting to find the right words to express what she wanted without sounding as if she was suggesting to him that he give her housework, "I mean… It'll just be awfully boring for both of us."

Ah, so that was the problem. She obviously wasn't the type to sit with her legs crossed, staring at the ceiling. She was probably used to doing something all the time, doing research on the stone, spending time with her boyfriend or family, competing for the title of the best student at school… He noticed how her leg started to bounce nervously under the table, as it was begging for _somewhere_ where it could lead her.

He shook his head, more slowly and lazily than ever. "I will have to disappoint you – your whole day will be filled only with _me_. But that doesn't mean we can't have fun. Imagine just how many things we can talk about! There's so much more you _need_ to tell me about yourself. Besides," he quickly added when he met her disapproving look, "I have spent six years by myself and, although there were far more interesting things I could have done for all that time, I did not die from boredom, as you can see. So, don't worry, you'll be fine with me."

She clicked with her tongue as if she seriously doubted it, but said nothing. More awkward silence ensued as she continued playing with the empty milk cup, her leg still bouncing under the table. "You might be right," she slowly agreed, "It could be fun. Especially since you have the stone…"

He cut her off with a loud laugh, "Don't get too cocky. You're not getting the stone."

Imogene put her hand down and looked up at him. Her eyes were much calmer now, even – _yes_ – even seductive. A cute look, ah? She moved her bottom lip slightly forward, so now she looked as if she was pouting while batting her lashes. They were indeed long, but did she really think that would work? "You will have to try harder than that," he said in nearly warning tone.

Sighing over her failed attempt, she focused on the cup again.

He didn't want to let the silence fill the room again- now was the time to attack her. "So, you slept well last night?"

"Yes." She shortly answered, cynically adding, "If we forget all the pain in my leg…" As if he was the one who injured it.

He decided to ignore her. "No nightmares?"

Her fingers stopped their dance suddenly, although she didn't look up again. "Why would I have them?" she asked in a tone that implied she knew the answer already.

"Oh, I just thought after you got disturbed by your memories last night you might have some troubles with your sleep," he took a sip of his coffee, looking for changes on her face. "You looked really… _weak,_ yesterday."

The word made her body jerk as if someone had spilled boiling water over her knees. Not daring to look at him, her cheeks coloured in red. She looked embarrassed now – not because of the story, but because of her own reaction. It was just as he predicted it would be. She wanted to stay strong at any price, to stay prudent and stable, especially in front of him; however, yesterday, it simply didn't work. For her it would be the best if they buried it all down deep underground and never mentioned it again.

"You know," he pleasantly continued, "if there's anything else you want to talk about…"

"I really got you interested in my story, ey?" she said sarcastically, "Well, I guess I'll have to disappoint you, I don't have another one. And even if I did, you wouldn't have the pleasure of hearing it."

"That's too bad," he said, sounding seriously disappointed, "I was kind of hoping you could make this all the more interesting."

"It was just a bad moment," she tried to convince him, avoiding eye contact, "Imagine how _mental_ it was to say something like that to complete stranger- who kidnapped you, what's more."

Well, when you put it that way, it was. But _he_ certainly didn't mind. 'Mental' was an adjective that was usually aimed at him. He could work with it.

"Maybe it was," he agreed partially, "but I really don't mind-"

"I do," she cut him off in the middle of the sentence, "This is not what I usually do."

"I guess you usually don't stay locked in a house with people who kidnapped you as well," he casually said, as if it was someone completely else from him who kept her lock in there.

For a moment she said nothing before asking, "Why are you even interested in me?"

He snickered as if it was obvious. "You don't really see girls with such ambitions and views as you have every day. I have met many people while in the military, people who could coldheartedly kill, or so it seemed, but the story you told me is different. You _explore_ that feeling. There was this girl, a sniper, at Ishbal, who carried nothing but regret in her eyes. But you... you don't have that. All I can see in your eyes is determination, curiosity and, perhaps, mystery," he smirked, "Add to that that I didn't have a chance to have a nice chat with a lady for about six years and you can easily see why I take enjoyment in your company."

The silence was filled in by her heavy breaths. "You make me sound psychotic," was all she could say.

"It was not my intention," he said in a voice that made her seriously doubt that.

"It was a rabbit," she said, her voice a little more high pitched now, "It was just a rabbit. I did not kill anyone and I did not intend to... I did not enjoy it either…"

"Why do you try to explain your deeds?" he questioned with an astute look on his face, "I did not ask for explanations, nor did I judge you. You should really relax, have a cup of tea... I wouldn't mind even if you did enjoy it." A chuckle escaped his mouth, "I know that I, myself, do."

This time she did not react as she would have yesterday. She merely bit her lip, observing him carefully. What a difference a day and a few words could make. Even he was surprised that she did not yell some gibberish about moral or scold him again. No, this time it was completely different. He was right before; there was curiosity in her eyes, as if she tried to look at the very core of him. Her eyes fell on his hands that held a cup of coffee - abruptly she touched her own palms as if she was trying to draw the transfiguration circles like his with her finger. "You did not tell me," she finally spoke, still staring at his hands, "what is your alchemy?"

He lifted his palms up, feeling a strong rush of excitement that she asked him his favourite question. "Explosion," he simply said, "I make things go _boom_." He chuckled. "Sun and moon. Golden and silver. It's, perhaps, one of the most dangerous alchemies there is, if I can say so myself. And I am very proud of it."

That, she could see – the way he looked at his own palms was something she had never seen before. He really enjoyed the mere thought of what he could do with those two hands. "And imagine how well this goes with the philosopher's stone. Work at Ishbal was a piece of cake. I was nearly disappointed with how fast I finished it all."

"You like to play?" she said flatly, though it sounded more as a statement.

He couldn't help but grin, "It's easy to notice, isn't it? Not simply play, but enjoy it as well. And the explosions - _**oh**_, I _really_ enjoy them!" he passionately said, leaning back into his chair, "The mere sound of them is enough to send shivers down my spine. If you listen closely enough, you notice the notes in it, yet it's not anything you could play on a piano. It's so much more alive, it tells a completely different story, more exciting than anything any musician could compose. And all the fiery colours, _aaah_. Who would ever think red and orange and gray can have so many shades!... But, oh my, it seems I got a bit carried away!" He chuckled, finally raising his gaze from his palms – his eyes were glowing with excitement and life and his breathing had changed rhythm. It was obvious he could talk for hours on end about his art. "I am sorry."

She shook her head, still incredibly calm, more than anyone else would be after his monologue, "I like it when you talk. It's actually rather interesting."

"I am glad you think so," he politely said "Thank you. I am most amused by your stories as well."

The end of her mouth twitched, but she managed not to smile. "I bet you are."

He took a sip of his coffee, not moving eyes of her. A lock of her hair fell over her face, but she did not reach to move it. She had nice hair, he had to admit – even though it was plain in colour, somewhere between the colour of chocolate and coffee, it was silky and smooth, something he felt the night before when he had touched it. She obviously took a good care of it. "You know, it made me wonder what else you're hiding beneath the surface," he admitted and reached into his pocket. He took out a wooden bracelet with engraved transfiguration circles on it, the same one he took of her hand the night Envy had brought her to the house. "I can see that you use simple alchemy."

She nodded. "I'm experimenting with different styles now… I'm only a beginner though. You know very well it takes years to reach some decent level."

"Different styles…" he casually repeated, returning the bracelet back to the pocket, "Which, if I may ask?"

Imogene didn't answer right away. She bit her lip as if she debated whether it was smart to tell him. "Energy alchemy," she finally admitted, "It's not very popular here, but…"

"It is in the phase of research on the west," he finished her thought, "Let me guess, you are at the University of West City, class of professor Collins? Was he your mentor as well?"

This was, perhaps, the first time she had smiled widely and honestly. It was a truly impressed and happy smile. "Wow, do you really know that much or were you stalking me?" she mocked, "Yes, yes I am. I studied at his group, he taught me everything I know about alchemy, and right now I'm preparing to graduate in energy alchemy. He already warned me it might take years, but I am ready to accept the challenge."

"You really aim high, don't you?" he noticed. "It's a hard task…"

"I know."

"It's a completely different alchemy than the one common in Amestris."

"Yes, it has roots in Xing. I know."

"It will take years. Are you ready to sacrifice it all just for the knowledge of alchemy?"

She laughed, loud and sonorously, moving her head back. He didn't see what was so funny before she spoke. "Is that even a question?" she raised her eyebrows, "Of course I am ready. Wouldn't _you_ be?"

That made sense - when they told him how hard it was to master alchemy of explosion, it didn't move him one bit. He was sure he would manage and he was right. It even took him less than it usually takes students- his mentor was pretty impressed by him. He smirked remembering this."I see," he muttered.

"I'm aware of it all," she repeated, "But there is nothing in the world that could change my mind. I have already spent so much time examining and reading about it, it would be a shame to throw all that knowledge away now. I knew what I was getting into – just as I knew when I first started searching for the philosopher's stone."

The mentioning of the stone was never accidental.

And then the look in her eyes changed – he was sure she had went for that topic with a reason. It was the same glare she had before, the craving and lust for the stone. He even wondered did she, even for a second, think about anything else but the stone during their conversation.

Kimblee laughed out loud. "Oh my, aren't you a stubborn one!" Slowly, so she wouldn't notice, he pressed his stomach a little and felt the round stone coming up his throat. He had learned quite well how to do it, just as he had learned how to talk with it in his mouth. It was no bigger than a marble. He took a moment to roll it with his tongue against teeth. The feeling couldn't be described to someone who had never touched the stone – he tried to think of words that were decent enough of the stone constantly while in jail, but couldn't find any. The feel of it wasn't of glass and wasn't of ore. It wasn't like any material he knew, actually. The stone was cold, yet it heated up his mouth. It was as if he could feel the power pressing against his teeth and tongue.

"Why do you want the stone?" he asked after that small pause, even though he could guess what the answer would be.

She shrugged her shoulders with a satisfied smirk. "Why do you? The plain thought of having the stone is exciting, not to mention all the things you can do with it. I can only imagine the feeling of holding the entire power and knowledge of the world between my two fingers. It pleases me even more that I, myself and alone, managed to find out the secret. I think that I really deserve it," she said without fake modesty. "And I'm pretty sure learning energy alchemy would take a lot less time with the stone," she finally admitted, smirking at the thought of it.

The power – she was one of those who craved power. The Elrics wanted their bodies back, he, Kimblee, wanted explosions, and she wanted power. Everyone used the stone for their own gain; everyone wanted what they loved the most. Obviously, she loved to play domination and ability games, to be better, to constantly reach out for something, and, like she put it, to hold the power between her two fingers. It was impressive how much could he find out from such a short talk with her.

He stood up and walked around the table, playing with the thoughts in his head and the stone in his mouth. Finally, he stood near her, his hands in his pockets. She looked up at him, obviously eager to see what he would do or say next.

Then, slowly, he pushed the round stone with his tongue between grinned teeth. At seeing it, excitement shone on Imogene's face. "You like the sight of it?" he asked, rolling 's' because of the stone.

"It's a beautiful colour," she said in a soft voice. Her eyes were fixed on his mouth and she quickly passed with her tongue over her round lips, making them moist.

"You really want it, don't you?" he asked afront. She had to nod. "And why would I give the stone to you?"

She did not answer. She decided to show him.

There was no doubt on her face. She stood up, more determined than ever, as she had obviously thought up what she would do earlier on. Kimblee couldn't hide his puzzled look as she stepped up to him, decisive and certain. Without any warning she put her slender palms on his cheeks, skewed her head a bit and pulled his face down to hers. For all that time her eyes didn't move from his mouth – and his eyes showed the uncanny state of shock.

She pressed her lips against his.

In confusion he opened his mouth, letting the stone slip from between his teeth, nearly swallowing it. That was, obviously, what she wanted. She opened her mouth sliding her tongue onto his, briefly licking his lips while doing so. Her tongue traced over inner places of his mouth, his tongue and his teeth, as if in a most passionate kiss. Yet he knew she was only searching for the stone. It all happened so quickly, but for him it seemed like her every movement was planned.

Kimblee wasn't about to lose this – she got him unprepared, but he knew how to play. This time, he would play her game.

He embraced her hard, an embrace that seemed more like grabbing. In shock, she opened her eyes and soothe her tongue for a moment. Quickly she realized what was happening. He felt her lips forming a smile against his and her tongue attacked his with more energy than ever. He was prepared for this and he started the defense – moving the stone in the place between his downer lip and teeth, on the left side that didn't touch her cheek, while he pushed her tongue with his back to her mouth, shoveling his own with it.

He felt her shiver under his fingers, how she winded up her back. She _enjoyed_ this.

It was more than taking a stone. Along with her tongue, she started to move her lips, and it seemed she was unaware of this. He felt her whole body moving in the rhythm of the kiss now and the movements became more rapturous, as if she was fighting to steal the air from his mouth. It wasn't just a battle, it couldn't be, movements of her body were far too natural against his skin to be an act – she wanted the stone, yes, but she wanted him as well.

Her eyes were half-closed now as she was completely focused on the movements of her lips, on the dance and fight of their tongues, on her short, excited breaths through the nose that tickled his cheek lightly. She let him support her completely, her body landed on his hands that were now squeezing it. Until that moment he did not even notice how stiff his grip had become or that he had pressed his fingers hard as if he was trying to dig them between her ribs.

Her tongue was restless. It turned into a small battle as she tried to pass his tongue and reach inside of his mouth again. But he had no intention of surrendering, oh no. He could go on for hours like this if needed. He had to admit – this was the most fun battle he had ever had. Her breaths were becoming much longer and sensual. He was sure it was nearly over, she was becoming gentler, her eyes were closed, her body tightly pressed to his. Suspiciously, he moved his tongue a little back, licking her chapped lips that were salty from breakfast from left to right – the corners had a somewhat sweeter taste, as if there was something hidden there.

His tiny retreat was her sign for attack.

Nearly violently, Imogene plunged, thrusting not only her tongue, but him completely. She straightened her back up, stepped up front, and pushed him with her chest, nearly squeezing his face between her fingers. Lightly, she shoved her fingernails into his skin, obviously not even noticing it – her real focus was searching through hidden places of his mouth, even more quickly than before.

She was better this time. She hastly searched the track between his lip and teeth. There was a sudden flash of excitement on her face when she touched the stone, like its energy had rushed right through her body, from head to toe. Readily, she pushed the stone out of his and into her mouth.

His hands squeezed her again, harden than before, so harsh that she quickly breathed out the air from her lungs. He couldn't, he _mustn't_ let her win – but the stone was already somewhere between her teeth. He tried again to attack, but she was too fast, too prepared. Without any doubts she bit his lip, hard, scratching it with her sharp teeth. Finally she started to part from his lips, but her teeth were still biting. There was a sly smile of victory on her face and she refused to let go, pulling his lip. He grabbed her harder, and they were now so tightly embraced that he his chest fought to catch the air.

Finally, she let his lip go.

For a moment they just stood there, looking into each others' eyes with a strange mixture of rage and excitement, trying to calm their breathing. They were both dazed, there was no doubt about it. One of her palms slowly reached for his hair, as if she only wanted to feel it lightly on her fingertips. Finally she put down her hand, letting them fall numb beside his which were still squeezing her without any plan of letting go.

She stick out her tongue, a tiny crimson ball shining on it. It rolled to the edge of it – a movement that lasted for a millisecond. Her palm waited for it ready underneath her chin.

She lifted hand so the stone was now between the two of them – they were both focused only on it, enjoying in its bright crimson colour, overcoated with a thin layer of their spit. "The philosopher's stone," she said in awe, as if she knew the real name of the God.

He was sure she wanted to say more. He was sure she wanted to scream, to whoop, to explain how powerful it is, how it flows through every inch of her being, how she could do anything with it. He knew that was what he would do.

Bu, no. She was just standing there in his embrace, again leaning onto his hands, gazing at the stone as she rolled it slowly between her fingers. Her eyes shined and her smile was wide, showing all of her sharp and white teeth…

And then it disappeared.

As if someone had put a mask over her face, the smile melted away and her eyes became serious and determined again as she finally looked up at him. "Too bad I don't need it now."

He looked at her, frowning, ignoring the stone for the first time "What?" he asked in amazement, "What do you…"

"I can't use it," she said lightly, almost in a sing-song voice "I'm stuck here and I can't use it for anything. It won't help me get out of here. Not even this," she raised the stone again, "will help me get pass those things that got me here… won't it?"

Smart. **That** was smart.

Now that she had the stone she could run out of the house and try to fight him with her weak alchemy. Even if she beat him, which was highly unlikely as he wasn't a weak alchemist even without the stone, the homunculi would come - if not right away, then sometime while she ran – and beat the hell out of her. Then they would bring her back and the only thing that would be different is that he, Kimblee, would get into a lot of trouble for letting her go. Or she could get killed instead of captured. Was she really thinking this much ahead as well? That was _smart_.

She gazed at the stone with something that resembled melancholy and then again at his mouth. Slowly she held up the stone to his mouth. The cold surface of the stone touched his lips. He could feel that it was still moist from the spit. He opened his mouth and her finger pushed the stone through his lips. Her finger stayed there for a moment. Lightly he bit it, sucking it. Her wet fingertip passed over his lips and then she let her hands fall down again.

Quickly, he swallowed, as if she could attack again any moment.

"I must admit," he said, "that was the most unusual attack I've ever experienced. You definitely chose to fight on a battlefield that suits you best."

She couldn't help but smirk at that. "You noticed?"

"How couldn't I," he raised his eyebrows, "You nearly won."

"I _did_ win," she corrected him.

"I am still holding you."

As if only now she had noticed that, she looked down to his arms. They were wrapped around tightly around her waist, her chest pressed against his. For a moment, he was afraid of what she might do next.

The mischievous smile on her face told him that he really should be.

Slowly, she neared her lips to his again, as if she wanted to kiss him once more, but she didn't. She just stood there, a single centimeter from his mouth, her hazel eyes looking daringly into his. He felt her warm breath on his mouth and he was nearly afraid to open them to ask what was she doing, as she could "attack" at any moment.

But as he thought this in his head, he felt her palms, quite strong for someone so slender, against his embracing hands. She took him at his wrists and pushed his hands down, lower and lower until he felt the curve of her derrière.

This was shocking and way too sudden – even for Kimblee. He never stumbled upon girl who was so shameless in doing _anything_ for their own gain. If it was him initiating it he wouldn't have minded, but this surprised him so much that he immediately and automatically moved his hands as if burned.

She laughed in accomplishment, holding his hands apart so he couldn't grab her again. Her face was still near his, so near she breathing into his mouth. "I said that I won." Nonchalantly, she moved away from him and with no further comments walked upstairs to her room.

_Extreme girl, really extreme_, he thought to himself while straightening his suit. It was a shame it got creased. But, it **was** worth it, he had to admit. Raising his head, he looked at the door through which she had disappeared a moment ago and smirked. He might have lost the battle, but he hadn't lost the war. It was _his_ game, and he would have to control it. Sure, he could do so right now even – the girl wouldn't know what hit her. He knew he would win if he only wanted to take things one step further.

But, manners before all – that was the main rule, he reminded himself, taking a sip of the coffee. It was ice-cold. Damn that doctor and damn that long kiss. He would have to make another one.

_A/N: So, umr… derrière… I kind of really don't like words 'ass' and 'butt', so well, this sounded kind of classy. Wooops. _


End file.
